A Different Kind of Gravity
by Kako
Summary: When Hermione is killed during torture at Malfoy Manor, she becomes a ghost, invisible to all but her killer. In order to pass on herself, she is set with an impossible task: she must first make him experience love. AU HG/LV Sequel to “Just Let Me..."
1. Fatal First Encounters

A Different Kind of Gravity

Summary: When Hermione is killed during torture at Malfoy Manor, she becomes a ghost, invisible to all but her killer. In order to pass on herself, she is set with an impossible task: she must first make him experience love. HG/LV Sequel to "Just Let Me Wake Up Already."

Rating: T for strong language, violence, etc.

A/N: Hello, everybody! I'm back! Welcome to my first HG/LV story, a sequel to my finished HG/TR work _Just Let Me Wake Up Already_. Please don't be worried if you haven't read the original; while I would recommend it coming into this, they are designed to be somewhat self-sufficient. Yes, this is also a major AU, making this fic non-DH compliant.

Disclaimer: Never have, never will own HP.

I have kindly asked my sister **Sakura Takanouchi** to beta for me for this story. Thank you.

And now, enjoy.

* * *

_Send a heartbeat to  
The void that cries through you  
Relive the pictures that have come to pass  
For now we stand alone  
The world is lost and blown  
And we are flesh and blood disintegrate  
With no more to hate_

_Time has stopped before us  
The sky cannot ignore us  
No one can separate us  
For we are all that is left  
The echo bounces off me  
The shadow lost beside me  
There's no more need to pretend  
Cause now I can begin again._

_--Smashing Pumpkins, "The Beginning is the End is the Beginning"_

* * *

Chapter One: Fatal First Encounters

If you would have asked her twenty-four hours ago what she thought she'd be doing twenty-four hours later, Hermione would have responded by saying that they would have been celebrating Ron's return, and the increased morale brought by destroying one more of Voldemort's horcruxes would make them happy; they wouldn't have the weight of the depression by wearing the locket any longer.

If you would have asked her two hours ago what she thought she'd be doing two hours later, she would say that Ron should never be given cooking duty again.

If you had asked her two minute ago what she thought she'd be doing two minutes later, she would grit her teeth, her eyes blazing with courage as she suffered the curse, resolved not to say a word to her captors.

"_Crucio."_

Bellatrix Lestrange was not the most powerful witch in Britain for nothing. Her madness made the power behind the Unforgivable all the stronger, and Hermione could not help her involuntary screams as the pain assaulted her body, digging deeper as the magic penetrated through to her mind, like a thousand tiny knives digging through her skin from the inside, everywhere; shockingly cold and scorching hot all at the same time.

The word was whispered softly, but was there any doubt what spell would be used? Hermione _wouldn't_ break, she couldn't, she could take it; she _had_ _to!_

It was amazing that all the pain was purely psychological, that what felt like her skin melting away was in fact nothing at all while it felt like so much more. It corrupted, clouding the mind with its pain-induced haze, all survival senses screaming at her to do _anything_ to make the pain stop, but that was truly all it was.

_Pain_. The word does not imply a physical injury, simply the feelings and inner ache accompanying it. She would really give up everything they'd worked so hard for on a simple mental weakness? Does pain really mean that much?

She considered it worthless; someone like Bellatrix Lestrange or any of the Death Eaters could deliver pain so quickly and easily, without even a second thought. Why, then, was it so hard to fight against the pain, to convince her mind that what felt like ice flooding her veins as her bones broke repeatedly time after time, the pain seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once.

_Nowhere! It's NOT REAL!_

She screamed again, nearly biting her lip through in an attempt to stop the sound from escaping her mouth. It only seemed to egg Bellatrix on as she continued the curse.

_Seconds minutes hours lifetimes_…

Hermione had no idea how long she'd been under the curse, _unforgivable_ as it was, the curse that only leaves scars inside the mind while not harming the body at all.

She collapsed, shuddering on the cold floor as she felt the feeling immediately return to her arms and legs; they felt fine, like she had imagined the whole process. Like it had never happened.

She was tugged from the floor, her hair grasped roughly by someone as she was made to stand. Bellatrix's face was livid, but in Hermione's returned clarity she was able to recognize another emotion: fear.

_Bellatrix is _afraid_ of something? What? Why? _

"_How_ did you _get _the _sword_?" Bellatrix shrieked, her lips pulled back grotesquely from her teeth as she awaited Hermione's response. Hermione noted how her fingers curled around her wand, almost pantomiming the action of choking her victim.

She nervously glanced around the room, every pore on her skin filling with a cold, clammy dread. Fenrir Greyback's expression disgusted her; reminding her what her fate should be if Bellatrix or someone else did not kill her presently, which she was starting to think was a pretty likely option. Lucius Malfoy stood regally on the opposite side of the room with his son, still pretending the guise of the previous status quo, although Hermione had surmised by now that his favor was anything like he pretended it was.

She wondered if this was what the losers feel like; so self-righteous and spirited until they were facing death directly. The vanquished; the winners always tell the stories, after all. They write history.

Hermione wasn't sure if she could depend on Harry to save the day this time. She was outnumbered and cornered, her wand in the clutches of another, _her_ outcome all that stood between them and the current safety of Harry and Ron. They weren't _safe_ by any means, but for now they were unharmed.

She hoped they hadn't heard her screams. She wanted to reach out to them, _save yourselves if you can_, tell them it was going to be ok, even if she had to lie.

She kept her face strong. She knew Voldemort had been called, she knew what was going to happen. No more school-time delusions, she knew _exactly_ what was in store for her.

"_Well_, mudblood?" Bellatrix growled, her curly hair springing out around her face like snakes, uncontrolled and feral just like their mistress.

Hermione gathered her courage; she would _never_ give up, she would _never_ go down without a fight.

"I wouldn't _tell_ you anything!" She screamed right back, tears still leaking at the corners of her eyes from the previous torture sessions. "I don't _know_ whatever you think I do! _Nothing!"_

Bellatrix's eerie smile unnerved Hermione but she stood her ground, fighting the conflicting desires to stubbornly glare right back and collapse into a mass of tears. Her mind wanted to fight back, but her body just felt so _exhausted_. The shell of her body welcomed death, a permanent rest, a slumber in cold ice where she would never have to feel or care, or love or hate again.

"_Well_, if she knows _nothing_," Bellatrix's nasally cackle made the hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stand on end. "Then I guess we don't need to keep you around any more." She recognized that tone; something incredibly bad was about to happen.

The snakes stared down their prey, a lion-turned-mouse, and Hermione only jutted out her chin, _daring_ them into completing this dangerous game they had been playing.

Hermione figured implying that she knew _nothing_ probably wasn't the best choice of 'last words' she could've thought up, but optimism at this point would just be literal blindness. She tried to brace herself.

Time seemed to slow down for Hermione as the last minute of her life ticked down. The countdown was almost out; the sun was sinking into the horizon of darkness as the last grains of sand trickled through the narrow pinch of the hourglass, with no one to turn it once more. She was running out of time, and she could not keep running from it. It was catching up. It would win their death race.

She didn't need to see him to know that Voldemort had finally arrived. She could almost _feel_ it in the air. His satisfaction at having finally caught Harry was palpable, the sensation pressing into Hermione from all sides, the pressure almost unbearable, yet distinctly _his_.

She spun, not prepared at all to look upon his face for the first time.

Whatever color left in her own face drained out of it when she saw him. There were no appropriate words to describe it.

_Terrifying…_

Hermione was surprised her knees had not given out on her, for she had never been more afraid in all her life.

It was not just his physical appearance—and Hermione had to admit that nothing could quite prepare her for _that_—it was more that he was the most horrifying, intimidating man she had ever seen.

It felt much the same as the tangible pressure his presence created on the atmosphere of a room; _what kind _of person commands that kind of attention out of fear? There is no respect out of fear, only dissent and disguise; _forced_ appreciation on the surface, fear and worry and _constant _anxiety below. And to _lead_ that, to control that—how could any such person even be human? What had they intentionally given up?

She could almost pity him, this twisted man-who-was-not-a-man, for _what_ could possibly make a person turn into _this_ in the pursuit of power? Did he even _know_ what he was doing to himself, or was it like a drug addiction, and the taker keeps imbibing their obsession, wanting more and more until it completely overtook them?

To have no control, a slave to their fixation. To never know emotions like _love _or _compassion_. She _did_ pity him.

She felt the pressure of the room change, and their eyes met.

She gasped, it was as though her mind was being torn open; she fell to her knees, clutching at her head as her vision changed—she saw memories and thoughts swirling together over her current vision, unable to close her eyes until he removed his presence from her mind, lips curling in distaste at whatever he saw.

Hermione struggled to breathe, eyes widening further as her two best friends and a familiar house-elf burst into the room, the apparition noise shocking the silence of the room as they bore witness to the scene in front of them, Harry immediately taking action against the others in the room in an attempt to free Hermione, trying his best to contain his own fear upon realizing who else had so recently joined them.

_No!_ _Run! _She tried to scream to Harry but her throat was too dry, she could not make a sound but only watch, tear-stricken, as Voldemort's wand slowly spun his arm in an arc downward to point directly at _her_.

Each second ticked slowly down as Hermione blinked, staring back at him as Draco was thrown back with an _Expelliarmus_ spell and a flung knife hit Dobby; none of it registered as Hermione locked gazes with the Dark Lord, wondering why his supremely satisfied expression was turned towards her as the jet of green light left his wand and the whispered words echoed loudly in the chambers of her mind.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Hermione saw it coming, inching closer and closer towards her as she exhaled her last breath; sounds and colors magnified beyond belief, and the most intense one of all was the bright green of the spell hurtling towards her.

_I still pity you_, she thought. _If only you could—_

Spell impacted; the sound of apparition jolted the room out of its perennial orbit as Hermione sailed away, all thoughts and feelings focused yet blank, a stab of worry in the back of her mind as she rode the currents of transience.

* * *

_Tick, tock…_

_Tick, tock…_

_Three seconds, four seconds, five seconds…_

She felt heavy; she felt weightless—confused, yet free from all limitations in a way that she'd never quite felt before. Everything around her was hazy, and Hermione could barely see or make out anything around her. She thought she was dead.

She _assumed_ she was dead.

_Tick, tock…_

She was wrong.

The clock restarted; counting back from a different number. Hermione could hear words being spoken, sense the uncertainty and confusion around her, but could make no sense of it herself.

_Is this…what death feels like?_

It felt…_peaceful_, she decided, that dark empty blankness that accompanied her expedition, but she still felt that something was oddly, horribly wrong. Not just that her perception of death wasn't what she'd thought it would be, but that her sneaking suspicion was growing that she was not actually dead.

It was a green light; she heard the words. _Why_ then was she now hearing his voice, telling someone to '_track down that damned boy while you contemplate your miserably short life for letting him escape_.'

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. _Harry was safe_.

She started. Confusion knit at her brow. She…she could _feel_ the sensation of breathing. Somewhere, somehow, she could feel her lungs expanding and contracting, drawing in _air_—was there _air_ here?—from the surrounding expanse.

That was when she realized that her eyes were closed, and figured opening them would probably be a pretty good idea.

_Shock_.

Innumerable, seemingly _unbearable_ shock.

If she hadn't been dead, Hermione figured that she would have just suffered a heart attack.

She could _see_, and she most definitely had not left that same room in Malfoy Manor. She looked around; she could not see her own body, but she realized with cold dread what she had become, wrapping her transparent arms around her for warmth.

_It's…it's not possible!_

She had _never_ thought about death, not even when it was staring her right in the face. She had always thought that she would die in her bed at the old age of ninety-four, accomplished and respected.

Instead she floated below the ceiling, staring at the scene below her in a mockery out-of-body experience, wondering _why_ she was so attached to this earthly world below her, and what _possibly_ could bind her when she knew she was ready for death. She did not fear it.

She was still taking in the scene, playing catch-up to the odd series of events that had led to her sudden transformation into a ghost. She _felt_ completely normal on the inside, but her entire body was transparent.

Something was odd about the scene unfolding below her. Draco had gotten up and was attempting to escort Fenrir Greyback off of the property while the werewolf demanded payment for his captures, insisting that their escape had nothing to do with him. She could hear the combined voices of Lucius, Bellatrix, and Voldemort in the next room, divided by only a wooden door, the screams from the first far outweighing the stringent rebukes and curses of the latter.

For the first time, Hermione was filled with a sense of curiosity about her predicament. Draco had succeeded in persuading Fenrir to leave, and now was casting worried glances towards the room occupied by his father.

_Haven't they noticed me yet?_

It was peculiar, and even though Hermione was secretly glad that no one had decided to look up yet—the situation was bad enough, but it would be _infinitely_ more awkward if _Draco_ was the first to acknowledge her predicament—she wondered just _why_ no one had noticed her.

She was _hardly_ one to blend in to crowds, but this blatant disregard irritated her. She was _dead_, she deserved _some_ pity!

_Pity_…

The thought struck a strange chord somewhere in Hermione's chest, but the momentary twinge was soon over as she remembered with sudden rapidity the events leading up to her death.

_Harry, and Ron! And the sword, and oh, they're gone!_

Her heart soared at the thought that she had been able to buy them enough time to escape, no matter what it had cost her. She could find them; maybe even find some way of still helping them. _I mean, a ghost must be useful, right?_ _I can…I can do this._

She was saddened at the thought that they, like Draco, possibly wouldn't be able to see her because she was dead—and now she was starting to believe that this was her perfectly torturous version of hell, being forced to watch everyone around her live and mourn her while she was unable to do anything to stop it. She _felt_ perfectly alive; it was only her appearance that made her believe she had become a ghost.

She was still floating up near the ceiling, and attempted the ghost version of tiptoeing. She needn't have worried about making any noise, because her body seemed unusually responsive to her movements, and it took her only a few seconds to master moving through the air. She was glad no one seemed to be paying her any attention, because her movements looked as though she was swimming.

She made it to the wall closest to the main door, taking in a deep breath and closing her eyes before plunging through, pausing to open her eyes again upon making it out at the other side. She had to laugh internally at her momentary anxiety; _really, what was I expecting?_

She still had to solve the problem of being a good nine feet in the air, and looked at the air beneath her feet with trepidation. She began to move her arms and legs, concentrating on somehow lowering herself to the ground. It was harder than she'd thought it'd be—she remembered reading about a zero-gravity simulator in a muggle magazine, and figured moving around in there would be somewhat similar to this—but she eventually made it to the ground, toes touching the stone of the massive walkway to Malfoy Manor.

She took off running. Hermione was glad to be on the ground; there was no reason to try to _fly_, she knew how to walk perfectly well, and she could not wait to be as far away from Malfoy Manor as she possibly could get.

She was _still_ running, she wasn't getting tired, she was _almost_ at the gate!

She was _almost_ there!

The wrought-iron gate was looming in front of her, and if she took maybe ten steps she would reach it. The more Hermione ran, the more she realized that she was hardly going anywhere.

Hermione took a step forward, finding that her foot barely moved past a seemingly invisible barrier, unable to move any farther ahead.

_That's…odd_, she acknowledged, looking around the front lawn of Malfoy Manor. Nothing _looked_ out of order, so why then was she running in place when she so clearly wanted to leave that horrible incident behind?

Hermione tried again, throwing her shoulders forward as she concentrated on moving her body through the air like she had so improperly done earlier.

Nothing happened.

Or more correctly, something happened, but she still did not move. She could feel it this time, however, like a weight pushing down on her from the other side; something heavy yet imperceptible to her eye keeping her—_from doing what?_

_Something_ was keeping her from leaving. Some kind of magic, she deduced.

She tried moving again; it was the same as before, she could not move forward. It was as though she was struck with a strange desire to go backwards; a ludicrous notion that she would be safer closer to whatever was holding her here than if she could somehow run from it.

A stroke of inspiration hit her with dread. _What if…is it the house? Is that why I can't leave?_

What-if questions were dangerous things in the mind of Hermione Granger, but the thought of going back in there sent anything but relief coursing through her body. She didn't _want_ to return back there, she wanted to leave—to go _anywhere_, from Hogwarts to the Burrow, anywhere where she could find somebody she knew, to gain back some information and semblance of her previous life, even if she was no longer in it.

Hermione had no idea where exactly her body was, but figured the house behind her would be a good place to start for answers, and she steeled herself to return to the place of her death.

She took her time walking up the thick steps leading to the front door, taking them one-at-a-time as she craned her neck to look at the imposing building before her.

_Well, here we go_.

Once more she surged through the wooden door, tears pricking at her eyes. The floor was just as empty as before.

Hermione circled the entry hall, fingers clenched into fists by her side until she stood right at the same spot she had been standing when Voldemort had sent the curse at her. She remembered seeing the green light, but the rest was such a blur...

Nothing. There were clear signs of the short fight in the room, but her body was nowhere to be found. _Honestly, what was I expecting?_ She thought. Quickly, Hermione brought her hand back up to her own neck, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing.

She cried, sobbing loudly as she knelt on the floor, wrapping her arms around herself to try to ease the grief. She didn't have to worry about being quiet; no one would hear her anyway. _I don't want to be a ghost! What is keeping me here? _

"_Why me!_" She cried out brokenly, her voice breaking on the first word. "_Why_ can't I leave?" She addressed the world, wishing for someone to answer her questions, tell her just _why_ she could not pass on. She certainly _wanted_ to move on! She didn't want to stay here and watch the world around her continue as if nothing had happened.

"_What _is that _noise_?"

Hermione heard the words, instantly ceasing her sobs as she glanced nervously at the door.

…_what? W-who said that? _

She refused to believe that the speaker had been referring to her. That someone could hear her, see her. _But isn't that what ghosts do?_

She glanced at the door to her left, waiting.

And then it opened.

* * *

A/N: Another big thank-you to everyone who read _JLMWUA_ and is continuing with me on this! I do apologize for the cliffhanger, but Hermione and LV will "officially" meet in the next chapter, I didn't want to rush things. Chapters will also get much longer after this.

Title Significance: It took me forever to decide on a title! I can't just keep referring to this as "the sequel" from now on, can I? _Gravity _is defined as the force of attraction between two objects, so 'a different kind of gravity' would take that to a more literal meaning. Also, both titles are octosyllabic, and 8 happens to be my favorite number—also why I updated on 10/8. So, for anyone thinking the title was random, it's not!

I do hope to hear from you all who are reading this! Send me a review if you liked it and make my day!

Love, Kako


	2. Solitaire

A Different Kind of Gravity

A/N: I am completely blown away by the amazing response the opening received! Thanks to: Saene, evil-sami-poo, 0Rosina0, Sakura Takanouchi, Ankoku Dezaia, Chou Hime, Excel Go Boom, chocolaterox92, Madame Dee, xXTwilight PrincessXx, JaceDamian23, 930, Coco96, NightRaven13, Serenity12345, IloveTHISstory, Charlotte232, My Misguided Fairytale, deidarawannabe, xiia0moonlight, sunshine'n'sarcasm, SilverLugia101, Ilaaris, Elavie, Serenity Blossom, and Amylion. Thank you all so much for reviewing!

To everyone on alert on 10/28: I have gone back and made some slight yet **important **changes to Chapter One, so I would advise that you all go back and skim through it, just so some of the things in this chapter don't seem out of place. I'm following a new idea I had recently concerning the plot later on, so if my reasons for changing things seem mysterious, just wait for it! If JLMWUA is any indication, I'll always come through in the end with good reasons for the crazy things I write xD

The end of this chapter gets somewhat dark. You have been warned.

Yet again, much love to the beta, **Sakura Takanouchi**.

* * *

"…_which in all the years of time has taught itself no boon of death but only how to recreate, renew; and dies, is gone, vanished: nothing—but is that true wisdom which can comprehend that there is a might-have-been which is more true than truth, from which the dreamer, waking, says not 'Did I but dream?' but rather says, indicts high heaven's very self with: 'Why did I wake since waking I shall never sleep again?'_

_William Faulkner, "Absalom, Absalom!"_

* * *

_Recap of Chapter One:_

_She glanced at the door to her left, waiting._

_And then it opened._

Chapter Two: Solitaire

Really, Hermione didn't think that it was possible for anyone to open a door that slowly. It creaked with the sound that only aged wood can accomplish, sliding open at a pace slightly slower than a flobberworm's maximum miles-per-hour record.

She also supposed she shouldn't be _completely_ shocked when, for the second time that day, she had come face-to-face with the darkest wizard of their time, his twisted face just as sinister as she'd remembered, with a slightly pallid Lucius Malfoy standing reverently next to him.

"Where is the body? We will need to dispose of it." Voldemort's words were brusque and rough, the sound seeming to bounce off of the walls and high ceilings of the impressive entry hall of Malfoy Manor, making the figure before her all the more intimidating. If Hermione was not dead, she figured that she would be very worried right about now.

She also figured that Lucius Malfoy was thinking along the exact same sentiment.

"M-Milord?" Lucius was a talented actor when he needed to be, but the genuine confusion in his voice was unmistakable. "_What_ body, exactly, are you referring to?"

"_My _body?!" Hermione's own voice screeched; she was sure she'd never done this much abuse to her vocal chords in her life. "_Don't_ you _dare!_"

Hermione didn't care that she was talking to two people, that for all intents and purposes, could not hear a word she was saying. She didn't care that Voldemort looked ready to murder Lucius for his indiscretion, before tensing at her words, his head shifting back until his eyes firmly locked on hers.

If Hermione was wondering what was happening, she was certainly not alone. It took her a moment to realize that, for some reason, Voldemort appeared to be staring right at _her_—or, _more correctly_, Hermione thought,_ the place my eyes would be if I was not dead. _

_I should be _dead_! What in the name of Merlin am I _doing_ back here?_

"Lucius, leave me."

Hermione was jolted back to reality at the sound of his voice, wondering briefly if he sounded that way all the time: apathetically short, yet almost cultured-sounding in its tone. She supposed that her recent condition was making all rationality leave her head as she wondered how a voice that odd would sound reading the Quidditch commentary, disregarding how quickly she'd succumbed to the isolation of her situation, with the only thing she had to turn to was her mind, when that deep voice spoke again.

"Just _what_ is going on?" He seethed, and Hermione's jaw dropped open, realizing with sudden clarity that he _had_ been looking at her just a few seconds ago.

He had been _looking_ at her.

He could _see_ her.

Hermione gulped. She really didn't know whether to be happy or extremely worried about that. She settled for the latter.

"_WHAT?!_"

Voldemort showed no reaction to her sudden and exceptionally loud outburst, instead cocking his head slightly to one side, appraising the girl before him who appeared to still be adjusting to this sudden onset of new information.

It took Hermione a few more seconds to recover from the shock, and a few more to close her jaw from its hanging position before she turned back to him.

_Well, he seems to be taking this well_, she thought.

She found her voice, finally answering his question. "Don't ask _me_ that. _I _have no idea what's going on." She had nothing to lose, and figured that she couldn't die twice. _Look at where my Gryffindor courage got me, _she thought as she mustered whatever bravado she had left. She shot him a condescending look. "I know I have _you_ to blame for this."

If anything, Voldemort looked amused by her continuous outbursts. "You can hardly blame me for your fervent inability to let go of reality," he remarked. "You are a ghost."

Hermione really didn't need anyone else reminding her of this fact.

"_I_"—Hermione really figured she was stretching the limits of whatever surprising amounts of patience he had shown so far, and Hermione just had to wonder _why_ he hadn't blasted her to nothing already, or at least _tried _to; but again, she had nothing to lose—"am not afraid of death."

She braced herself for whatever sea of wrath was floating above her, but it never buried her. Again, she had to wonder _why_ he was so calm—_curiosity, maybe?_ She thought.

"The consequences show otherwise." His voice was smooth as glass.

"I am stuck here. At this house." Hermione had no idea why she could not stop talking, but the words were already out.

One eyebrow rose; she saw the red glint in his eyes shift. She didn't know what that meant. She didn't think she ever wanted to know.

"I see. And this concerns me, how?"

Hermione's mouth opened again; now she had the opposite problem, and could not find the proper words—_any_ words, really—to answer his question or extract any more information about _anything_ she could do to help her own situation or reverse this overlapping of two different worlds, for that was the only conceivable explanation she could think of for what was happening to her. If she was a full ghost, Lucius could see her. She didn't understand, but wished for immediate clarity in some form. She had never heard of anything like this before.

A cluttering noise sounded from the winding staircase above them, and seconds later Bellatrix Lestrange descended, a look of deepest regret painted on her gaunt features.

"My _Lord_." She waited to speak until she had reached the bottom of the stairs, bowing deeply before him. "I wish to apologize for my inability to subdue _Potter_"—she spat the name—"and kill his companions for you, rest assured I will accept any punishment for my actions and will be even more determined in the future to do your bidding." Her eyes almost glittered with anticipation at the expectation of his torture.

Hermione looked away distastefully. It really was disgusting, how she fawned all over him, almost robotic in her devotion. She felt slightly sick at the prospect of being stuck with nothing but watching _this_ for entertainment.

"Enough. I will return later, Bella," he told her. His eyes never moved to where Hermione stood once.

She heard the telltale crack of apparition mere seconds before a different kind of blackness engulfed her entire body. It felt like she was being torn in every direction at once, the thunderous rushing roar all around her tantamount to the circling winds of a hurricane as she shrieked to the darkness, finding her body frozen and her mouth unable to move, the air pressed out of her lungs as she sought just one more scorching breath.

Within another second it was over, the pain feeling just as fresh in her mind even as it slowly abated. She could move now, looking around to once again be face-to-face with her most dreaded enemy.

_What?_

Still numb from both pain and shock, it took her a moment longer to register their surroundings. She had no idea where the two of them were, but it was fairly dark, and the air felt clammy on Hermione's skin, like they were in a cave or basement or somewhere else near-underground. From the twisted expression on Voldemort's face, she realized that he was just as equally surprised by her sudden appearance as she was.

"How did you get here?" His anger scared her more than anything she'd ever encountered, but she stood her ground, wanting to throw her earlier words right back at him.

_I have no idea what's going on_.

And then it hit her. She couldn't possibly be attached to the house; she had left it, hadn't she? And what she experienced was definitely not normal apparition. She was left with only one disturbingly obvious answer, calling out to her like a lighthouse.

She was sure that they both had realized it at the same time, but she was the one who spoke first.

"It's _you_…" She backed away. "Not the house…" She trailed off; incredulous, doubting, but still unable to refute the evidence staring her in the face—for he hadn't moved since she'd arrived, and had yet to speak a word to her in opposition to her revelation.

She gasped, throwing her hands up around her mouth to keep herself from screaming at the new comprehension that coursed through every fiber of her being, her eyes wide with realization at the implications that such a revelation brought.

_Somehow_—and she _really_ didn't want to begin to think about _how_—she was attached to _him_.

She didn't know what that meant; _how in the hell can that be possible? _

But more importantly; _what did I do to deserve this?_

She couldn't have possibly screwed up _this_ badly; she'd never failed an assignment, never lied or stole if she could help it—the polyjuice incident _still_ haunted her conscience—she never even got _coal_ in her stocking, for Merlin's sake!

_And, now my own murderer is refusing to let me rest in peace!_

In another light she would have appreciated the irony; speaking of light, Hermione had just enough of it to register for the second time that they were most definitely not at the Manor anymore.

"Where…where are we?" She asked suspiciously, instantly trying to take in as much of it as she could.

She could discern the sudden and chilling appearance of a thin smirk on Voldemort's pale face through the dim lighting.

"That is no concern of yours."

The words were harsh and bitter, yet she could easily hear them in the weighty silence before only reserved for their breathing until the starry blackness dissolved before her eyes once more and she was pulled back into the disparate apparition, pressure squeezing her from inside and out as she sought desperately for an escape, only to be granted one when she thought she could take it no longer.

They emerged once more, this time in a brightly lit parlor room; Hermione was disoriented by the sudden brightness of this new room and in the reassurance of the proper workings of her lungs as she gasped for breath.

She hoped he wouldn't make a pattern of doing that. Wizarding travel was so _harsh_; apparition, portkeys, floo powder, broomsticks—_seriously_, _either they just _enjoy _banging themselves around or they just have tougher skin than I do_. _Or simply have death wishes_.

The voice of Voldemort once again jolted Hermione back to the present. "Now," he spoke smoothly, but Hermione knew the deadly intent behind the words. "We are going to figure out what is causing this, and then I will be rid of you."

If Hermione wasn't scared out of her mind, she would've laughed. _He_ was the victim in this situation? _Hardly_, she thought wryly.

"Where are we?" She coughed out instead, looking out the windows to see crawling ivy vines covering nearly everything in sight. She looked back over to the rest of the room, noting the impeccable state of the antique-looking furniture and paintings. No dust in sight.

"Riddle House," he answered curtly.

"Why are we—"

He cut Hermione off before she even had time to finish her question. "I reside here from time to time so that I might learn how to hate it better."

All she could manage was a slightly delayed "…Oh."

"Why would you wish to remain in this life?" Voldemort's question made Hermione slightly angry; _haven't we been over this before? _She thought irritably. I_ am_ _not the one with the mortality mania, thank you very much_.

"I. Don't. Know." She shot back, crossing her arms over her chest to further emphasize her point. "I certainly wouldn't wish for _this_." She gestured at herself and around her with her arms before crossing them again.

"But, I do remember that, right before I, um, _died_…" Hermione trailed off, unsure how to tell her murderer that, _moments_ before her death, she'd had lingering thoughts of pity and something near akin to _compassion _towards the man standing before her—thoughts that she could _hardly_ explain _after_ the fact, she decided.

"_I felt sorry for you_," she spoke, glaring at him from across the room, as though the wayward emotions were somehow _his_ fault.

"I was in your mind. Of course I saw what you felt, girl," he scoffed in response.

Hermione realized that they had gone this long, and he still did not know her name.

"It's Hermione. My _name_ is Hermione."

"Would you have any objections to being returned to the plane of spiritual transience, _Hermione?_" he asked dangerously softly.

"Would I have any objections to—_WHAT?!_" Her eyes widened upon seeing his wand in his hand, and before she had any time to blink a wave of green light coursed over her.

Hermione did not even bat an eye, instead snorting at the absurdity of his spell choice.

"And _what_ exactly did you think _that_ was going to accomplish?" She asked, resisting the strong urge to roll her eyes. "I'm already _dead_. You can't _die_ twice."

At this point she wasn't terribly sure about that last bit of information, but she _had_ memorized the sight of the irritated and confounded expression on his face, for the _moment _it had lasted. _Priceless_.

His cold smirk put an instant freeze on any happy feelings she'd had just then; it felt like she was being doused with a bucket of cold water.

"Maybe _you_ cannot," he said mock-thoughtfully. "But most people can die _once_." _I do not need anything from her, least of all her pity_. _I had been meaning to take care of another Muggle village, and this should teach her not to question me again_.

If it was possible, she felt even colder. She fought the urge to shiver just from the sense of his words alone.

She knew what was coming next.

She could never become familiar to the sensation of simultaneously being split apart and put together, and that is exactly what this particular unwilling apparition felt like. She was once again engulfed in darkness, but hardly noticed it as strong feelings of anxiety permeated every muscle in her being.

He was in control; she had never known where they were going to go when the darkness surrounded her.

But it had never worried her so much before.

When she emerged from the darkness, she looked around her with horror.

They were standing in the middle of the street in a suburban neighborhood, the sky just now starting to grow dark, a ring of rosy orange etching the horizon as the sun slipped below its edge.

The street was devoid of any people, but Hermione could see lights in some of the windows, and each had a shiny car parked in the driveway or on the edge of the neatly paved street.

"Where are we?"

Hermione felt like she had been asking that question over-and-over that day. This time, she wasn't sure if she really wanted to know.

"Havering," he told her.

She was more scared by the almost-cheerful sound to his voice. The worry had not left her, but had migrated to the pit of her stomach, settling there like a rock, twisting through the rest of her body as she wondered just _what_ they were doing there.

She didn't want to say it, but her mind supplied the other question; _just what was _he _going to do here?_

Voldemort walked forward. "Hmm, we are upwind, so it will have to be _this_ one," he murmured to himself, his wand at the ready in his right hand.

Hermione took a step backwards. _Why would it matter if_…

She tried desperately to minimize the sound of her gasp, but it escaped her mouth anyways. She was sure he heard it, if his victorious grin was any indication.

"_Watch and learn, Hermione_," his voice was darkly sinister, his wand moving almost gently as the first house on their left erupted in flames, covering the air in a cloud of smoke and soot blacker than the darkness in the split second of an apparition, the glass in the windows blowing out with the crash of splintering glass from the trapped superheated air. It was horrific.

From his reaction to the destruction around them, Hermione had to wonder what compassion she could _ever_ have felt for this creature. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve _anything_.

The house next to it went up in flames next, clouds of dark black smoke painting the once-blue sky, tainting it as the smoke rose higher and higher.

Even if she didn't hear screams coming from the insides, Hermione's mind would have imagined them for her.

The paint on the shiny cars was melting; the impeccably green grass was brown, or black, or gone completely in some cases. Hedges were missing; lawn flamingoes were blackened from the flames still licking over the plastic.

One-by-one each house was reduced to a smoldering ruin, until nothing was left but blackened, completely destroyed remains.

Voldemort was walking towards her; Hermione tried to back away, but found that her legs were unable to move. Looking briefly down, she found that to be a lie—her legs _could_ move, but only to tremble violently to a degree she didn't know legs could be capable of. She tried to speak.

"No, we are not done yet," he told her, grinning broadly. "In fact, I'll let _you_ choose where we shall visit next."

Hermione felt sick.

"Hmm, what shall it be?" He asked. "A school, a bank, maybe a hospital? So many _choices_, _Hermione_."

She hated the way he spoke her name. It sounded foreign coming from his lips.

"Choose. Now."

She didn't think '_none of the above_' was a valid option, and she didn't think her own voice would work properly enough to beg him not to go through with any more. She had read about the attacks on Muggle London over the past few months in newspapers, but she had never thought she would be witnessing them first-hand.

"Time's up. Lambeth Bridge sounds like a wonderful choice." Voldemort's words were laced with dark sarcasm, and the last thing Hermione remembered seeing before the darkness of his apparition closed over her again was the brightness of the red flames against the now-dark sky.

They appeared gently on one of the sidewalks overlooking the Thames, the dark night clouding their sudden arrival. Hermione could see the headlights from the cars racing over the bridge, wondering just how many of them would make it in time.

She found her legs, staggering closer to him.

"_Please_…" Her throat was dry.

He turned back towards her, and she fought another shudder; she blamed it on the cold.

"What was that?" He asked, his eyes narrowed as another smirk stretched across his face, made even paler by the rising moonlight.

"Don't do it," she whispered.

He could see it in her eyes; her worry, her _concern_ for the useless little creatures moving around London on that bridge, none of whom she knew and none of whom would _ever_ give a second thought about her own well-being.

_They should know that the only one a person can count on is themselves_, Voldemort thought with disdain, tearing his eyes away from the long strain of cars. They angered him, so he didn't want to look at them any longer.

Without warning, he apparated, and Hermione was unexpectedly tugged along, the strain from the day on her body and mind more than she thought she could take. She felt barely conscious, hardly registering the fact that they had returned to the Riddle House, the antique furniture looking all the more sinister from the darkness surrounding them.

Voldemort approached her, and Hermione stumbled back, her footing unsteady as she realized just what he had done. _What the both of them had done_.

"_Do you feel sorry for me now?_" He screamed, his face dangerously close to her own, the features twisted in a palpable contortion of barely contained fury.

She met his eyes bravely, and saw again that same flicker of what she felt moments before her death.

_Yes_._ Of course I do_.

* * *

A/N: Havering is a London borough I picked at random from a list online.

Obscure references to _The House of the Seven Gables_ in this chapter! Halloween candy to anyone who gets it!

In fact, Halloween candy to anyone who reviews!! This year, I am going as a penguin. Just thought I'd inform you all of that fact xD

As always, any comments on characterization, flow, etc would be much loved! …_And _you get virtual candy! xD So review away, please!

Love, Kako


	3. Relativity and Other Cruelties

A Different Kind of Gravity

A/N: Wow, over 1000 hits _already!! _Muchas gracias to everyone who reviewed on the second chapter! JaceDamian23, evil-sami-poo, 0Rosina0, RandomGirl930, Morbid DramaQueen10, Charlotte, Madame Dee, Ankoku Dezaia, SilverLugia101, Ilaaris, chocolaterox92, sunshine'n'sarcasm, Saene, Psychotic Oreo, serenity12345, .Heart, Jenny-Beth, Chou Hime, xXTwilight PrincessXx, PrincessSnuffles, ButterflyOnna777, Sakura Takanouchi, Schermionie, priscalthum, maripas, okieredrose, Vera-Sabe, Mental-Chipmunk, Knoknayme, So NOt My Life, Lady Mage, and tears-of-inspiration! Thank you all so much!

Yes, I know I've taken an insane amount of time to get this chapter out, but I've been busy with schoolwork and winter break travel.

An extra 'muchas gracias' to my beta, **Sakura Takanouchi**.

Now, enjoy chapter three!

* * *

_Can anybody find me somebody to love?  
Each morning I get up I die a little  
Can barely stand on my feet  
Take a look in the mirror and cry  
Lord what you're doing to me  
I have spent all my years in believing you  
But I just can't get no relief,  
Lord!  
Somebody, somebody  
Can anybody find me somebody to love?  
—Queen, "Somebody to Love." _

* * *

_Recap of Chapter Two:_

"_Do you feel sorry for me now?_" _He screamed, his face dangerously close to her own, the features twisted in a palpable contortion of barely contained fury. _

_She met his eyes bravely, and saw again that same flicker of what she felt moments before her death. _

_Yes_._ Of course I do_.

* * *

Chapter Three: Relativity and Other Cruelties

Hermione sat against the stone wall of the same room she had been in probably an hour before, her knees tucked up to her chest in what had become an increasingly uncomfortable position since she had sank to the floor after her little 'verbal duel' with Voldemort.

Hermione was left by herself in that small hallway after Voldemort had screamed at her and then stormed out, the aftereffects of his rage lingering behind him like a heavy storm cloud.

_How incredibly mature_, Hermione thought sarcastically as she hooked her arms around her knees. She let the obvious point itself out that her current state curled-up in a corner spoke nothing about her own maturity in this situation, but she really didn't want to be the one to go after _him_—she didn't even have a good reason in mind for doing so. _Just to chat?_ What would they talk about? _To figure out how to stop whatever is going on?_ That idea sounded more appealing to Hermione, but she did not know the first place to start, and had no idea what would happen to her if her strange connection to Voldemort was broken. Surely _he_ would be a lot happier—or whatever passed for happy for him—without her around, but she did not know what would happen to her.

She knew at least that he was still inside the area of Riddle House; she would have been dragged along unwillingly behind him if he chose to vent his rage somewhere else. She had clearly understood the point he was making by his obliteration of the Muggle neighborhood; _don't question me, don't challenge me, don't make me regret killing you by having you tacked on to my life like some sort of deranged guardian angel—_now _there_ was a thought!

Humorous as the thought that she could be Voldemort's personified _conscience_ was, Hermione had more serious matters at stake. She had abandoned the feelings of sorrow and loss at her 'death' almost instantly, for here she was, and what good would reflecting on the past do when she had the potential to do more _somehow_ in her current state. Death was tragic, there was no denying that, but miring herself in it would not help her current situation one bit or her cooperation from Voldemort.

She supposed it was like peeling away a Muggle adhesive bandage; ripping it away immediately would be faster, although the pain would be more intense at the beginning. She supposed they both had placed these 'bandages' on their situation, and neither wanted to admit that for the moment, they really were _stuck_ with each other. By covering up with suspicion and security, they were impeding their own progress. Better to rip it away now and confront the true problems than lament their fixed choice of companion.

She stood up on shaky legs, deciding to explore her new residence. She had nothing better to do, and she figured the information might come in handy later. Newly refreshed and feeling much happier since her internment, Hermione took a deep breath and passed through the nearest door, breathing it out with relief when she noticed the emptiness of the hallway. She glanced up, lips pursing at the sight of the large staircase leading to the upper wing of the house. She continued forward, feet padding noiselessly as she peered in more hallways and observed larger sitting rooms and an ornately furnished dining room, Hermione noticing with distaste that the cobwebs themselves seemed almost thicker than the furniture. She crept further, not even sure what she was looking for. A library, perhaps? If she could find one, it would provide the best distraction for the situation she could think of.

_At least I've got the hardest part over with_, she thought wryly. _Now, to explore_.

* * *

Voldemort felt instantly better after casting a few well-placed slicing hexes to a few of the carefully hung antiques around the room. Portraits ripped, porcelain plates shattered, and the vases his paternal side of the family must have liked so much fell to the ground in pieces.

He hated to admit it, but this recent course of action had been something he was completely unprepared for. It had taken him by surprise, something that happened so rarely that he almost forgot how it felt.

Of course, it changed nothing, he decided. Having one of Potter's (he spit out the name, even in his mind) closest friends follow him around in the final stages of his plans before declaring open war against all who opposed him; _now _there_ was a great idea_, he thought sarcastically. He didn't need any distractions, least of all now.

_Brilliant timing, as the saying goes_.

It wouldn't help that she would most likely attempt to interfere in anything and everything she could, which was why for the moment he had remained sequestered in Riddle House. If he didn't leave, neither could she. He knew she had _some_ measure of intelligence, so the sooner it sank in that it wouldn't make sense to keep defying him any longer, the better.

He sighed. _You want something done right, you have to do it yourself_. No more delegating the important tasks, all it did was prove the total incompetence of everyone around him. Something he already knew too well, yet time after time gave his followers repeated chances to earn themselves back into his good graces.

He allowed himself a satisfied smirk. At least the ghost…woman…spirit; he cycled through words to describe her, finally settling with '_annoyance_;' at least she seemed to thoroughly fear him now, as she should.

He was sure she did, he had no trouble of convincing himself of the fact, but he had not looked into her eyes long enough to know for sure, for the last time he looked into her eyes he had not liked what he saw, and it had been what propelled him into this strange circumstance, after all.

A hopefully _amendable_ circumstance. This was not the time to find himself saddled with the literal equivalent of a motorcycle sidecar, not when he had such pressing matters to attend to.

He was alone in the room. Yet another reminder of yesterday's disaster, he had no more prisoners to interrogate. He'd already eaten for the day.

_Pressing matters, indeed_.

At the least, the seemingly endless commotion going on at the Ministry was providing a nice distraction for his upcoming mission, and now his followers were all the more motivated in their continual battle against the Order. Their numbers were decreasing as his steadily increased; what more did he want?

Challenges would be nice. Entertainment, too. He always thought the goal was the most important thing to keep in mind, but for once he wished that the journey to it would be slightly more interesting. Without all these things he took for granted in his empire, his life had become increasingly routine, as if every motion was set to the action of a clock.

His anger spiked again, something he noted that had seemingly increased exponentially since the arrival of that ghost…_annoyance_. In his command over immortality he also controlled infinity, and how _dare _something as simple as a _clock_ tell him when to do things! Sure, minutes and hours were convenient, but he was situated outside them now; _he_ should be controlling _them_!

It showed something else that his mental rage was now being taken over by berating something as simple and inanimate as a clock; he was _bored_.

Not your average, momentary, afternoon bored, but the concept of infinity was starting to seem very long to him. He supposed he could take a more active part in the domination of his opponents, but then what were his followers for?

He could not rush his upcoming mission, no matter how much he wanted to. _Magic_ was the one avenue he had not completely explored, but that was something that would always be around. It could wait for his attention.

He abandoned his reflection; it would all come together in due time. It always did. He wouldn't have to wait much longer for what he wanted.

* * *

Hermione's mouth gaped open in surprise. It had taken her over an hour of searching to finally locate the library; so, on a brighter note, she also knew where the kitchens, the gardens, and a small potions laboratory were. In case she ever needed any of those.

But it was completely worth it.

Apparently, Voldemort came to Riddle House more often than he'd let on, as the library was huge, sunken in from the main floor with a small balcony from the entrance descending down a wide flight of stairs to a checkerboard marble floor. Bookcases lined each wall except for the one to her right, which was lined with French windows, sashed with tall white curtains. She was surprised by the sheer quantity of books in this library, and that everything she saw seemed to be strangely clear of dust. It was light and airy, and completely unexpected.

She didn't know where to start first, but the library seemed expansive enough that she could explore _here_ for another hour and never see it all, which was fine with her. Maybe, if she got lucky, she'd never see Voldemort again and could stay here forever in her little slice of heaven.

Well, a girl could dream.

She flounced down the stairs with more happiness than she was sure she'd felt since being trapped in this normally dismal place. She approached a set of smaller, much more ornate bookshelves, lips pulling flat in a grimace across her face as her happiness instantly abated.

_Heaven?_ She glanced down at her ghostly pale hands, turning them around as she observed their lucidity. _If I…I can't even hold one in my hands, I'll welcome any experimentation Voldemort wants to try on getting me out of here. This would be torture. _

She leaned forward on the tips of her toes, extending her right hand slowly across the top of the case as if to brush off a layer of invisible dust. She bit her lower lip.

_What have I got to lose?_

* * *

Voldemort's reconciled mood was not to last for long. He found Hermione at last in the library, bent over a glass case upon which rested a thick book he clearly remembered as having previously been located inside the case. She didn't move as he entered the room, even as the doors slammed shut behind him.

He approached her. "I see you have found my library."

"Yes," she responded stiffly, still not looking up as she continued leafing through a book.

"The book. You…can move it." His surprise was carefully masked; _how is this possible?_

"Obviously." She sounded angry. He supposed he didn't blame her for it.

"My magic didn't work on you before," he accused, his eyes narrowing.

The words, "maybe you just didn't use the right spell," escaped her mouth before she had time to think about them. A smirk grew on Voldemort's face as his fingers curled around his wand.

"Maybe this isn't the result of a spell." She waved the book in the air with some difficulty; it was one of the larger tomes in the library and was quite heavy. She spoke quickly; she was sure there were several unpleasant spells swirling around in his mind, and she wanted to indulge his curiosity just enough to make him forget target practice and instead focus on helping her break free of whatever was tying her to him.

"Besides," Hermione continued quickly. "Do you know of any other time the _Killing Curse_ instead brings its victim back to life to haunt the caster?" She paused. "I didn't think so."

_So far, so good_. She had diverted his attention away from his wand and towards the book in her hands. He bent over the case where she had set the book back down, studying the closed cover.

"This is a volume on lunar parallax," he said with a smirk. "Care to share how that is going to help you now?"

She ignored that. "It's _your_ library, _you _find me a book on '_why killing curses don't work_.'" She accented the title with air quotes and paused before grinning. "In fact, I think you should write one yourself."

Oh, she was sure she was going to be paying for that one later, but at the moment it was worth any price.

She glanced back at him, but he had a completely different expression on his face than she expected. Her taunt didn't seem to faze him at all; instead, he appeared not to have even heard her. _Just what was going on?_

"I don't need a book if I've figured it out."

"Care to enlighten me with your presently unrevealed knowledge?" Hermione asked sarcastically, her own fingers hovering over the thin pages of the text before her.

"More than just ghosts reside within the walls of Hogwarts, my dear," he told her dryly.

"I'm hardly a suit of armor," she shot back. "What else is there?"

"In addition to the medley of House-specific ghosts sharing the wisdom of their eternally bereft lives, Hogwarts is also home to two wonderfully _enchanting_ poltergeists." He paused for effect. "I'm sure it would be near impossible for you not to have met their acquaintance on at least _one_ occasion."

Hermione scowled in her mind, wishing he would just get to the point. With him, everything had to be a long, drawn out battle of wills and wit for some unvoiced competition for supremacy—of _what_, she didn't know—that she wanted _no_ part of. _At all_, she had to remind herself.

"_Two_ poltergeists?" She asked disbelievingly.

"Yes." He looked amused now, like he always did when he chose to reveal information like this. It was probably the closest he ever got to actual gloating.

"One goes by the name of Peeves. I have no _idea_ what his real name is, nor do I care. As for the other, I had the distinct pleasure of introducing her to her current state. I believe you know her as Moaning Myrtle?"

Hermione was stunned, but she wanted nothing more than to wipe the self-satisfied smirk right off his face. He had to be wrong. This couldn't be possible.

"I…_can't_ be a _poltergeist_. That's _insulting_." Hermione grimaced at the thought that she could have anything at all in common with a being like _Peeves_.

"Tell me, what is a poltergeist?" Voldemort's words snapped Hermione back into focus. _He was serious!_ She still didn't want to believe it.

"They're Class-C Magical Creatures," Hermione rattled off indifferently. "Harmless to most, although I would disagree," she added spitefully.

"So would I," Voldemort agreed, his smirk growing deeper by the second.

_Even when he _agrees _with me, he still manages to turn the conversation over on my head. _Hermione did her best to ignore it. It was beginning to be a lot harder than she thought it would be.

"Poltergeists are spiritual impressions of a deceased person's consciousness and memories imprinted upon a location or other person," Voldemort spoke smoothly, each word so ingratiatingly eloquent that Hermione was sure he was quoting. It made her even angrier; she resolved to snap up every book she could find in this room on magical creatures. She _hated_ having to rely on others for information of any kind, but relying on someone as smug and pretentious about it as _him_ was just _infuriating_.

"Poltergeists and ghosts are different in that ghosts are offered the chance to return to Earth instead of moving on, but poltergeists are affixed to their impression by a strong enough negative emotion, like vengeance or anger."

Hermione still wasn't buying it. "Myrtle?"

Voldemort was obviously relishing his momentary advantage, but Hermione let him stew in his own self-importance. It wouldn't make her feel any better, but she hoped it might make getting information out of him easier.

"Ah, Myrtle. I honestly wasn't expecting what she would become, but her condition is rather unique. I was unaware of the degree of anger she had towards Olive Hornby"—he paused—"the girl Myrtle began to haunt. Unlike ghosts, poltergeists have the ability to move on, but only by fulfilling the empty task that binds them here. Myrtle's vengeance went unfulfilled, and any chance of egress vanished with the death of Olive Hornby."

Hermione hated the way he spoke about people—whether living or dead—with such callous apathy. She'd always believed that one way the dead continued to live was in the memories of the living, and tarnishing that in any way was unacceptable.

"And Peeves?" She pursed her lips. He still had a long way to go before convincing Hermione of her _own_ state, but she had to admit that his reasoning was fairly solid.

"Peeves is attached to Hogwarts, naturally. I believe that he will leave when his presence is no longer required."

Hermione was puzzled. _Just what does _that _mean?_

"Anarchy, my dear. When the students of Hogwarts are just as twisted as he is, his job will be fulfilled."

"Fantastic," Hermione couldn't help but mutter. "So you're saying that I'm being screwed over by fate."

"Not in so many elegantly chosen words," was his cool response. Hermione felt like kicking him, if that action wouldn't have been horribly immature and inappropriate.

Hermione's brain was still retracing all of their progress. If she _was_ a poltergeist—_theoretically_, she reminded herself, then she had a task to complete before she could finally move on. And according to their previous conversation—if one could call screaming and accusations a conversation—Hermione remembered confessing that moments before her death the only emotion she had felt was intense pity, strangely directed at the killer himself.

"So? What must you accomplish to return yourself to death's waiting embrace, _Hermione_?"

His words jolted Hermione out of her thoughts. She hated how he said her name.

"I…felt sorry for you," she repeated slowly.

Voldemort waved his hand, almost as if brushing her words away. "Yes, yes, we've heard all that. What about me could possibly _inspire_ your pity?" His words were laced with condescension, and Hermione felt like screaming the answer back at him.

She drew what remained of her courage and looked him in the eye. "I felt sorry for you because you are alone."

Voldemort snorted. "Alone and lonely are two different things, you daft girl."

"Are they?" Hermione countered. "You have no idea how wonderful true human emotions can be. Have you ever really experienced true happiness, or peace, or love? Not even friendship?" Hermione was on a roll. "Of _course_ I pity you. I even pity all of your followers because they have to _put_ _up_ with you."

"Love?" He laughed the word. "I must experience _love_ for you to pass on?"

He apparently found the idea far more comical than she did, but Hermione was unwilling to budge.

"The alternative is being stuck with me for the rest of your hopefully short life, so get ready for _that_," she retorted.

From his expression, Hermione figured she had a long way to go in creating convincing threats, but it still got the point across.

"Well, that's going to take _forever_," she spoke sarcastically. "I have that long," was his quick response. Hermione groaned. She supposed they would kill each other faster than she could possibly get him to fall in love with someone. Besides, who in their right mind would ever want _him?_

"See something you like?"

Hermione realized that she had been caught staring. But really, who could blame her, as everything about him was so twisted to the grotesque to be just intriguing enough for prolonged attention. He would argue that his appearance instilled fear; Hermione would have considered it a morbid curiosity.

"Hmm? Not on you, certainly," she bit back as acidly as she could.

The comment gave her an idea. Really, just _who_ could she get him to fall in love with? Bellatrix, naturally, was the first option that popped into her head, but she _almost_ felt sorry for the two by even suggesting it.

"How about Bellatrix?"

The words had popped out of her mouth before she could recall them.

"In a hurry, are we?" He asked. "I am not surprised she would be your first choice, but I am hardly a polygamist."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. "And you had so much in common. So, certifiable insanity isn't your thing? I'll keep that in mind."

"And here I thought you were taking this so well," he retorted smoothly. "You _are _attached to the darkest and most powerful wizard of all time, perhaps for eternity."

"You're not," Hermione shot back quickly, her voice trembling. "The most powerful." She shook her head. "You'll never be."

They had been matching wills and wits so far, but now Hermione had toed the line in the sand. _In my defense_, she thought stubbornly, _he brought it up, anyway_. _Too late for caution_.

"Care to re-evaluate your opinion?" He asked, his voice dangerously low.

She hated to bring her friend into the argument, but the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. "You haven't beaten Harry." Her voice rang with pride for her friend; she had ultimate faith in his ability to prove the prophecy true and come out on top, just as he'd always done.

"Oh? You mean that insufferably weak Potter boy." The words were spoken dismissively, but Hermione could hardly miss the ire in his normally even voice.

"And how does the saying go?" Hermione couldn't resist the jibe. "You're judged by the strength of your enemies?"

At Voldemort's raised eyebrow, Hermione wondered if there was even anyone out there Voldemort considered his enemy. The only thing he seemed to fear was his own death, if his accumulation of Horcruxes was any indication. But, to her credit, he did not respond.

"Besides," he was the first to break the stony silence. "I do not have time for your…_'love and friendship'_ suggestion. You may not be in a… position of communication, but you will not be allowed to interfere with my plans."

Hermione picked her battles wisely, only rolling her eyes at his arrogance. _What is it with men and _that _excuse? I'd have at least thought he'd be more creative than that_.

Hermione herself was surprised at how easily she was able to stand up to, in his words, '_the darkest and most powerful wizard of all time_.' She could only blame her Gryffindor courage so much for her inability to keep her mouth shut. She was surprised she hadn't yet been reduced to a blubbering wreck, or been blasted into nothing for her defiance. She realized, with growing clarity, that it was just for that reason that they'd been so civil to each other at the moment. She was entertainment, she was different, she was intelligent; but the moment she implied anything else, he wouldn't tolerate her anymore. She wasn't just like all the others, and that's what was saving her now. She's seen what happened when she angered him. Hermione's shoulders tensed slightly in discomfort. _Just how long can I keep this up?_

The book lay forgotten on the case; Hermione wondered where to go from there. Voldemort answered her unspoken question.

"We will be returning to Malfoy Manor."

She frowned. "When?"

"Now." The response was prompt.

He held out his arm to her and Hermione was baffled.

He had gotten to her; she had no idea how to react. "Just _what_ are you _doing_?"

"I had assumed that side-along apparition would be far more comfortable than being dragged along. I'm being polite." His eyes narrowed. "But I have the capacity to be cruel, if that is what you would prefer?" He left the question open purposely, already knowing the answer to the question, but seeing if her pride would let her answer correctly.

"Forgive me, I didn't know Dark Lords had the _capacity _for civility." Hermione's own words were cheerily civil to the point of obvious fakeness as she repeated his own words.

His sneering grin dropped the smile from her face. "Suit yourself."

The arm was still offered and Hermione swallowed before lacing her own arm through his. Seconds later, the darkness of apparition surrounded them.

* * *

A/N: Again, apologies for the huge delay! And a belated Happy New Year's to all my readers!

It's been so long since I've written for this story, so I'm a little worried about the characterization; let me know if you think something is off.

As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!

~Kako


	4. Lost at Sea

A Different Kind of Gravity

A/N: Apologies for the slow updates. Really, don't let me get away with this crap. I give everyone full permission to yell at me if I ever even take half this long to update in the future!

This time, cookies _with _milk to everyone who reviewed! Ankoku Dezaia, redfoxrose, Coco96, Saene, sunshine'n'sarcasm, JaceDamian23, Charlotte232, 0Rosina0, chocolaterox92, NightRaven13, RandomGal930, Vera-Sabe, Sakura Takanouchi, My Misguided Fairytale, What-Ansketil-Did-Next, CataclysmicallyTerrible, Morbid DramaQueen10, LM1991, xXTwilight PrincessXx, omgahitsbritt08, Chasing, Lizzy likes the Hot Guy, Yew Wand, LilacGrace444, ScatteredVisionShatteredDreams, SS, Limadunia, signy33, diamond aka fairy246, Queen Elphaba, MississippiGirl13, Lady Juice, Team Guy of Gisborne, Katelyn852, Voldyneedsahug, POM-frenchreader, silverotter95, mrs can and fries, CrashedEye, Sectimsempra, HinataLoveNaruto, Kuro-baara, Eliza Lighton, SriHellGirl25 and satoz! I don't deserve you guys, you're all so awesome!

You'll see that this chapter has a _great _many similarities to its counterpart in _JLMWUA_. Enjoy!

* * *

_This much you must know of me again  
And I'll have you know I'm scared to death_

_Tell me once again  
That you'll love me to the death  
And should I die, you swear that you will come for me  
As I fade away, you reach out your hand  
(And please don't let me go)_

_--Mayday Parade, "You be the Anchor…"_

* * *

_Recap of chapter three: _

_The arm was still offered and Hermione swallowed before lacing her own arm through his. Seconds later, the darkness of apparition surrounded them. _

Chapter Four: Lost at Sea

_The girl smiled at him as they danced, but he could not see her face. He was convinced he was at Hogwarts, yet it looked like no Hogwarts he recognized. There was no music but the strains of sorrow that he felt as his pulse accelerated unnaturally quickly. He had no reason to feel this way, but suspicion and solitude were part of his being. And it always ended the same…_

_Darkness swallowed him; she was gone. The cobblestones disappeared but the wind increased its velocity exponentially, giving him the effect of swirling in empty space. He thought he might have been standing upside-down, if he was even standing at all. He could not open his eyes, no matter how hard he tried. He struggled to breathe. _

_Claustrophobia set in along with the vertigo as he clawed at the infinite blackness around him to release him from its hold. He blamed it for taking the faceless girl, instead of realizing that it was him, all along, who he ought to blame. Even in his dreams, he never lacked the control that he felt ripped from him now, leaving his skin raw and blistering from the roughness of the wind. He normally dreamed about his expectations for his future—a time when he could finally collect on his decades of planning and searching for the ultimate power… _

_There it was again, a scent so strongly fresh and clean, of rain and lemongrass and nature at the pinnacle of its creative periphery rather than its destructive edge. It was almost real; he breathed it in, wanting it to choke him. He was still falling._

_He breathed again. _

* * *

His eyes snapped open, his fingers releasing their hold on the black silk sheets of his bed; someone was shaking him in the shoulder.

He sat up swiftly, his eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light in his bedchamber. He glared at the person who had by now moved a safe enough distance away, yet was glaring right back at him.

"You were having a nightmare," Hermione informed him.

Voldemort couldn't care less. Lately, that seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary.

"A very _loud_ nightmare," she continued. "I was in the middle of _The Turn of the Screw_."

"Well, don't let me keep you." The irritation in his voice was evident. It was odd, but Voldemort felt aggravated that he had been woken up in the middle of his dream. It had felt like he was on the verge of uncovering something important, but now it had all fled to hazy nothing in his mind.

"I won't," Hermione replied, flouncing from the room and returning to the antechamber, where a large stack of books stood waiting to be read on a side table next to the settee she had been curled up on. The lamps in that room filtered a soft light into the open doorway, but he could not see any farther into the room.

Voldemort scratched the back of his head, feeling the increased fatigue of the past day come crashing back to him.

Voldemort rarely slept, but when he did, he had been having recurring dreams—they were more like nightmares, really. He'd been counting; they had started approximately nine months and twenty-three days ago. It was always the same; the same girl, whose face he was never able to see. He found himself in classes he recognized from Hogwarts, staring into a crystal ball or checking out books in the library. Hardly nightmare scenes, but it was how the dreams ended that classed them in that particular category. They ended the same, dissolving into nothing, falling into a darkness so black it rivaled the color of a thestral's feathers.

When morning came, he never remembered more than ghostly flashes. The dreams fled his consciousness as soon as he'd woken, but this one stuck. The scents, the images, they seemed more real this time than ever. One particular detail stuck out at him: he had been in a room, paneled with mirrors. He had caught his reflection in one, stunned at what had shone back at him.

It was his face, but it was a face he hadn't seen on himself in decades. He was _young_, in these dreams, and he didn't know what to make of it.

He tried to block it, but the image of his young face was emblazoned in his mind. He seemed to be staring back at himself. It was unnerving, in a way, that the only face that appeared in his dreams was his own. He heard voices, he remembered the scents, he was aware of the sensation of touch. He felt the blast of the wind as he fell, heard its rush. In the dream-nightmares, only the sense of sight was impaired.

_What does it mean?_

* * *

Hermione was surprised to find that Voldemort kept a rather large collection of novels, most of them Victorian gothic. She wasn't a fan of the genre, but those had been what had kept her occupied for the past day. Voldemort had instructed her, on pain of "_a fate worse than death_"—as _death _wouldn't exactly have been the most fitting threat, all things considered—to stay in the anteroom adjacent to his own chambers while he "continued business." She had rolled her eyes at his words, but after demanding more books to keep her entertained, she had been given stacks of Gothic horror, magical textbooks, and Dark Arts volumes to keep her complacent. She had hastily rescinded her own unspoken retort about the Dark volumes when she saw the other books, happily grabbing up the first one she saw.

She had barely looked up in the past six hours in-between books, only to hear muttered shouts and ragged breathing coming from the opposite room. She had been instantly on edge, the words on the page blurring as she reluctantly tore her eyes away from it. Voldemort had been in the middle of a nightmare, and Hermione had debated over what to do. It felt like a strangely personal gesture to wake him up from it, but Hermione was worried by the apparent intensity of his nightmare. His face…he had looked oddly _human _to her there, so vulnerable in sleep.

She had poked him twice, but that only seemed to make it worse. She had tried again by shoving him in the arm, the sleeve of his pajama set the same color and material as the bedding, by the look of it. It was the first time she'd been in the room; she had proclaimed very loudly after he'd mockingly offered a tour that she "_had no desire to see the inside of his bedroom and pitied anyone who did_."

It had become infinitely more awkward once he awoke, but she still stood by her excuse, that she had only woken him up to return to her interrupted novel. Henry James was a talented novelist, and Hermione wryly noted that Voldemort had probably specifically picked what was literally a _ghost story_ for her to read.

Hermione tried to return to her book, but her mind had already wandered far from the pages. Waking him from his sleep had been only the second time she had voluntarily touched him, the first time being when the two had apparated back to Malfoy Manor.

Actually, it _was _far more comfortable to apparate side-along than to just be dragged along behind like a barely caught Portkey, but she'd never tell _him_ that. Even when he apparated inside the limits of Malfoy Manor it still affected her, causing a feeling in her stomach akin to the highest drop on a rollercoaster. After telling him this, she was obliged to explain what a rollercoaster even was, which was difficult when the general impression her description gave was of a giant metal deathtrap. She had never really liked to Apparate anyway; the squeezing feeling was uncomfortable, but it was still preferable to Floo Powder or Broomsticks as wizarding methods of travel. If she could travel anywhere with the comfort of the Hogwarts Express, she'd do it.

With a sigh, Hermione turned the page and resumed reading.

* * *

For some reason, Hermione had never had any cause to believe that Voldemort was anything but a morning person. It was the sort of thing she'd never given any thought to, for naturally obvious reasons. Her attempt at a cheery '_good morning_' had been met with the most sinister and grouchy scowl she'd seen on him yet before he brushed past her and headed out of the room, reminding her once again to stay put as if her life depended on it.

Hermione had done her best to ignore him, but something about his behavior made her the slightest bit curious. Besides, what gave him the right to order her around like this? She folded one of the slimmer paperbacks into the magical history text she had been reading to act as a bookmark before edging her way towards the door, as if expecting alarms to sound at her movement. It was unlikely that Voldemort had put some kind of curse or tracking spell on her to restrict her movements—she doubted such a thing was even possible, as she knew that the success of any kind of magic involving poltergeists was haphazard at best, and research on the magical creatures was nominal. It was a slim chance, but any knowledge she could gain about Voldemort's planning could be used to help her friends. She may not be able to help them physically, but she could still aid them however she could.

_Besides, what's the worst that could happen? I'm already doomed to a life of defective invisibility, it can't get much worse than this_.

Among her friends, Hermione was hardly the schemer of the group, leaving such less-than-well-intentioned plots to the Weasley twins while at school, so she should have known that her plan—or lack thereof—had all the holes of a faulty sieve. She floated through the door, intent on finding someone—or at least a copy of the _Daily Prophet_—to let her know what was going on outside the walls of her new prison.

Hermione's first clue that she and her supporters had nothing to worry about over the darker side in the organization department came when she wandered into what appeared to be a meeting room, chuckling at the space's inhabitants.

They seemed horribly ill-equipped to their task: Fenrir's feet were propped up on the antique table, peeling an apple with his fingernails. Malfoy was staring in horror over his copy of the _Prophet_ at Fenrir's dirty boots staining his white lace was mumbling something near inaudibly about forgiveness and revenge…

Hermione's face lit up. _Revenge! _

She supposed if Voldemort had such a problem with her _lack _of malevolent motivation, then he shouldn't have a problem at all with what she planned on doing now. She could even say she was taking a leaf out of his own autobiography.

_If he wants a poltergeist, that's exactly what he's going to get_.

She started with one of the many piles of cluttered papers along the side of the room. It hardly looked like they kept up any significant kind of organization, yet she knew from experience that moving so much as a paperclip in Ron's room would launch a riot about disturbing his carefully designed order.

She took a deep breath, letting the adrenaline of being in such close contact with these three Death Eaters without them being even the slightest bit aware of her presence fuel her momentum. She paused for a moment, leaning over Malfoy's shoulder to read the front page of the _Daily Prophet_, the article in the top right-hand corner catching her eye.

_Muggleborn Registration Act a Success!_

_Muggleborn wizards and witches lined up in the Ministry Saturday the 14__th__ in what has been the most successful day in the history of the initiation of the Muggleborn Registration Act to date. Those in possession of a wand were asked to provide documentation, a family magical history registry, resume, and other residency information. "The purpose of the Act," said Wizengamot seat Brutus McGellan, "is to ensure that magic is not placed into the wrong hands in these dangerous times. Those who have been proven to have stolen their magic have been punished, and those who can prove the legitimacy of their magic will be released." While the Ministry have yet to provide statistics on the wizards involved with the program, all Muggleborns are encouraged to participate, and the Ministry notes that vagrancy is not tolerated in the pursuit of justice…(continued on page 7)._

Hermione stood back, blinking in shock. _How can they possibly…?_

She knew firsthand how iron-like the Minstry's control over the magical community had gotten, and how unacknowledged the transition had been once the Death Eaters and their supporters took over. Hermione herself had witnessed the "success" of the program—there was a reason statistics were unnecessary and unreleased, it was because _no one was ever coming back! _She gritted her teeth in anger. This was pure propaganda brainwashing, every word of it.

'_Vagrancy will not be tolerated in the pursuit of justice!' Who writes this garbage? _She thought. All reporting on the subject made it sound so glorious, so revolutionary, when no one bothered to look at how disproportionate it really was. _Like there'd ever be a pureblood registration act!_

She reminded herself that _this _was the real reason she had to keep her head level and her mind on the prize. She had to fight for all of the Muggleborn witches and wizards out there; she understood the prejudice they faced best of all her friends, and how much of a difference they could make in magical equality. It had started with magical creatures like centaurs and elves, and now they were trying to eradicate all Muggleborns. The Ministry was finally revealing its true colors—silver and green.

She had to grin at _that _at least—by becoming a poltergeist, Hermione had just risen up even further on the dark side's hate list. She knew from Umbridge's history against Peeves how difficult it was to even attempt to magically remove a poltergeist from their haunting, and she hoped wryly that Voldemort could never get rid of her like that—she considered herself the _perfect _punishment for him.

And it was about to get _even _better…

She stepped back cautiously when Malfoy sat up, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "Is it cold in here?" He looked around. Neither of the room's other two occupants seemed to give any indication they even heard what the Malfoy patriarch cared to say.

Hermione grinned before turning back to the precariously stacked pile of papers behind her, nearly rising up to her knees. Without warning, she grabbed the top half, throwing the feather-light parchment pieces up into the air, watching with glee as they scattered in all directions. She took a few more pieces, throwing them in front of Malfoy's face and laughing to herself as she watched him bolt from the chair. She quickly made her rounds, folding a few pieces into hastily constructed paper airplanes and throwing them down the length of the table, imperceptibly tying Fenrir's loose shoelaces together as she dumped a pot of ink on Bellatrix's hair.

Bellatrix shot out of her seat, looking around anxiously as the papers continued to soar around the room—Hermione had now moved on to kick and fling remnants from every single stack of paperwork around the room. "What are you doing? What's going on?" She gasped out, flinging a hex at Fenrir and shuddering as she tried to pull the ink out of her hair.

"I didn't do it!" Fenrir grumbled, blocking the curse, although Hermione could detect the subtle twinge of anxiety in his voice. Most wizards—_pureblooded ones, anyway_, Hermione thought, were notoriously superstitious, and she planned to prey on that as thoroughly as she could.

"_You?_" Bellatrix started, pointing a bony finger at Lucius.

"Don't look at me, I sure as hell didn't!" Malfoy snapped back, raising his own wand and looking between the two of them. Hermione bit back a laugh before floating up to the ceiling and grabbing the crystal chandelier, swinging it back and forth across the room. Several of the crystals dislodged, dropping down and breaking into glass on the desk or floor.

Fenrir swung his legs off the table to get out of the way of one, immediately falling over when he tried to take a step.

"My _feet_." His voice wavered as he scrambled away, his back hitting the wall as he tried to struggle to his feet. "Is your house haunted?" He asked Lucius worriedly.

This gave Hermione an idea. She paused in her throwing of papers and rattling the spare chairs, wondering if they would hear her if she spoke. She bit her lip, throwing aside her momentary embarrassment as she decided to try to impersonate a stereotypical Muggle ghost.

"_Ooooooh!_" Her voice wavered, but none of the three seemed to have heard her. She paused, face turning bright red. "Well, I suppose it's a good thing no one heard that," she mumbled.

"N-No…I don't _think_ so." Lucius' tone matched Fenrir's exactly. Hermione picked up a chair and hurled it into the wall as best she could, laughing freely as the three of them jumped back in fright.

"How can you not _know? _It's _your _house!" Bellatrix screeched as Fenrir kicked off the shoelace-knotted boots, throwing them far across the room. "Here, take 'em! I don't want 'em!"

_If you insist_, Hermione thought, picking up the abandoned boots and grimacing at the smell. The bottoms of the shoes were covered with mud and grime, and Hermione took great satisfaction at walking the boots across the perfectly wallpapered walls, leaving dirty boot-prints in their wake. Once done, she tossed the boots back towards Fenrir, who dodged them as if they were on fire.

"L-Let's get out of here!"

She should have known Lucius was the most cowardly of the three. She continued her assault on the office, throwing some more papers after them as they retreated rapidly into the hallway.

She let the papers settle, plucking the forgotten copy of the _Prophet _from its perch on the end of the table, flattening it out as she read the rest of the page in private, the previously unread section at the bottom drawing her immediate attention.

_Public Enemies._

A big picture of Harry Potter was first under the troubling heading of '_Enemy Number One_,' alongside pictures of Kingsley, Arthur Weasley, and Remus Lupin. She was shocked, however, to see her own face staring back at her with a deadpan expression under the caption, '_Enemy Number Two_.' Every once in a while she saw her picture-self's eyes flicker with concern to Harry's picture, and then went back to staring the reader down.

She almost dropped the paper in shock. It didn't help that she hadn't seen a copy of the paper in weeks—really, there wasn't much to be gained from it now, the Ministry wasn't releasing anything important through those channels anymore—but it was still incredibly disconcerting to think that the dark side saw her as that crucial to their side's success.

And now, well, she'd all but handed them that small victory. She wondered how her friends were taking the news. There was no publicity over her death—she supposed it hadn't made the news yet, but she knew Voldemort would gloat over it in print, even if he couldn't do it in person. If it would harm Harry, he'd probably even demand post-mortem quotes to publish on her most recent physical state.

She'd answer _that _one with a resounding '_no comment_,' for all the good it would do. She was surprised he hadn't tried to grill her yet on information regarding the Order, and most specifically Harry's movements and plans. He basically had the best possible informant he could ask for living under his roof, and he hadn't made so much as a move to try to interrogate her.

_Maybe he's just biding his time? _The thought scared her more than anything else. She had barely given it a thought, yet now she felt that there was nothing _else _she could think about.

It made no sense. She was able to withstand Fenrir's and Bellatrix's torture in her last living moments, but she was sure if _Voldemort _wished to get information out of her, she'd eventually give in. She could run from him—granted, she couldn't exactly run _far_—but she doubted she'd even _want _to run forever.

She decided, if she was faced with that kind of situation, she'd do her best to feed him such convoluted information that his servants would be running in even bigger circles than they were undoubtedly doing right now.

She popped her head through the wall into the hallway, and glided out the rest of the way upon seeing that the coast was clear. She didn't know where she was going, but the library seemed like as good a destination as any. In the past, it had always calmed her down, and right now, that was what she needed most.

* * *

Voldemort's anger was slightly mollified when he walked into the makeshift potions lab he'd set up in what used to be a sub-basement that served as the servant's quarters, back when Malfoy manor kept a full range of staff on hand. He'd considered moving the entirety of his Death Eaters down there and taking over the place himself, but morale was an important part in motivating his troops.

He couldn't tell whether his recent feelings of concord were happening because he was meeting with his most competent subordinate, or because of said subordinate's most recent project. Snape had suggested that he be allowed to brew this potion at Hogwarts, but Voldemort had decided that he needed to be closer to their newest weapon's development, and this particular potion needed the security that only being close to him could afford.

It was ironic that he never would've thought of the idea by himself; it was a recent recruit, a Muggleborn recently graduated from Ravenclaw, who had thought of it. Muggle weapons were developed much differently than magical ones, and, as their many wars proved, they liked to kill each other in as many different ways as wizards did. Spells had the inconvenient habit of being able to be stopped, whereas a potion had instant, effective, un-block-able potency. Weaponizing one of the most powerful potions in existence, however, was proving to be every bit as difficult a task as the idea was simple.

Choosing a potion had been simpler. Snape had recommended some particular poisons that could be mass-produced easily, but Voldemort rejected them, instead supplying Snape instructions to brew a potion that had no known countermeasure, could not be used against them successfully, and had never before been used offensively.

Therefore, Snape had since been spending his free time in the lab brewing Amortentia.

The appeal was tremendous, Voldemort decided, once he had thought the plan through. No one on the side of the Order would be expecting it, and in a vaporized form the potion would be effective against a larger target and be even _more _powerful than its liquid incarnation. Poisons could be warded off with bezoars or cured quickly with counter-potions, but this had no defense. Besides, he figured, it was best simply to incapacitate the enemy in these situations. He _was _capable of mercy, as he had told Hermione, and he would give any opponent the chance to join his side before decimating them completely. While the courage his opponents displayed in the face of his oncoming terror was an irritation, at least he had to admit it _was _admirable. While he had larger numbers on his side, their complete lack of a spine sometimes proved an inconvenience.

There were very few people capable of brewing such a powerful potion, and Hogwarts' newest Headmaster and ex-Potions Professor was more than up for the task.

Voldemort walked into the lab, sparing a glance at the half-dozen bubbling cauldrons lined up on the table occupying the exact center of the rectangular room.

Severus was bent over one of the cauldrons at the far end of the room, his wand dictating the precise stirring motions of the glass stirring rod whisking itself through the half-brewed deep-red potion. At Voldemort's entrance, he straightened up, bowing slightly through the steam of the potion as the potion kept stirring itself. Voldemort did not tolerate insubordination in any form; he supposed it was one way his ex-double agent maintained some semblance of egalitarianism between them. Severus excused that the potion's brewing could not be stopped for anything, but Voldemort did not care what excuses the proud man had for not displaying the same level of extreme deference he demanded from all of his supporters.

When he walked into a room, he expected _time _itself to stop, damn it! What use was it if he couldn't even control the most powerful love potion in existence?

Severus' clear conceit was one reason Voldemort hated checking up on his progress, but being in the same room as the potion was another thing entirely. From the expression on Severus' face, he seemed not to mind it that much. He remembered Severus asking once what it smelled like to him.

"_That is none of your concern," he had told him._

"_I apologize, my Lord," Severus had responded. _

"_What do you smell?" Voldemort had asked. Severus paused. "It smells like lilies to me. Nothing else."_

He had found it deeply ironic that, in Severus' mind, he was constantly surrounded by the flower most commonly used in funerals…the man always _did _seem to have an aura of death and despair around him, one of the _other _reasons Voldemort avoided his company.

"How is the progress?" He asked sharply.

"As well as can be expected," Severus responded. "One of the…_assistants _you appointed disrupted the first batch, so I have started over." Seeing the growing glint of rage in Voldemort's eyes, Severus added quickly, "And I have already taken care of him. This batch should be finished by the end of the week."

Voldemort sighed; He should have known the group of recent Hogwarts' graduates he'd thrown at Severus to assist with the project's completion would find a way to screw it up.

"And the potion's facilitation to an aerosol?"

That was the tricky part: While they had a nearly endless supply of guinea pigs, testing was proving to be the most vexing part of the entire project. Amortentia, like most potent potions, burned straight through the Muggle invention _plastic_, and wouldn't be contained by most normal metals, wood, or other synthetic materials. Gold was too heavy to use realistically, and crystal or glass were too easy broken. He had even ordered a search of the Department of Mysteries to find a suitable container, but so far, nothing of promise had been found. They were currently working on an egg-shaped device that would contain and release the vapor upon impact—Muggles called it a _grenade_—but he wanted something far more spread-out. He supposed time-release charms could be employed, allowing them to hide the devices early on and activate them at their leisure…hmm…

He realized that he had not been paying attention to Severus' answer, and only caught the end of his report. "…rest assured, if given enough time, we will find the answer to the emulsion problem…"

Just what he needed. _More _problems. Severus was always asking for more _time_. He supposed he could grant it. They were, after all, both busy men, and Voldemort could respect that. Barely.

"Fine. But I expect it to work next time." His voice was harsher than he expected it to sound, but he supposed that was from the continued exposure to the potion. He hated the way it smelled like things that for all practical reasons _should _not _have _a smell, like rain or sunshine or clouds or whatever other nature-heavy images came to mind. It was heavy in the way that an anesthetic was heavy, weighting down his mind, but at the same time had a sharp accent to it that clarified his every thought. He didn't like so many contradictions together at once.

His thoughts were further clarified, focusing themselves on one particular person..._thing_…_ghost_. He considered himself a realist, and Voldemort would be an idiot if he thought the girl would be obedient enough to stay put. He should probably check in; maybe she'd give him the excuse he needed to put her even further in her place.

He turned on his heel and exited the room, ignoring Severus' "_Thank you, my Lord_" as he left, ignoring the unanswered questions swimming around in the wake of all that Amortentia-induced muddling clarity:

…_where exactly is her place again?_

* * *

Hermione was making a game out of secretly following Voldemort after catching him passing by the library, seeing how close she could get before she chickened out and phased through a wall or door, picking up more useful information she could rally to her side if she ever got the chance: previously unknown but popular wizarding society members involved with the Death Eaters, the size of his army, offensive and bureaucratic projects, pending Ministry legislation, methods of communication utilized by Voldemort and his immediate subordinates…the list went on and on.

She had followed him to a staircase leading down to a basement level when the game got boring; there was only one door leading to wherever he was at the moment, and getting caught did _not _seem like an idea way to repeal her boredom. She floated back up to observe the results of her handiwork—Lucius had requisitioned a whole floor's worth of occupants to research anti-curses—and Hermione couldn't wait to see him fail again. Maybe she'd even give a repeat performance…

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps and a _very_ familiar voice yelling at someone to get out of his way. Hermione's eyes widened. She knew _exactly _where he was headed, but he stood smack in the way between her and both of their present target locations.

She floated up a level in the building just in time to watch him enter the room _she_ was supposed to be in, a sinking feeling of dread building in her stomach.

Suddenly, her bright idea seemed completely burned-out.

* * *

Hermione had gone…somewhere. Incredibly specific, he knew, but at the moment tracking her down seemed like an unnecessarily tiresome task. He paused, smirking, before Apparating to a spot three feet to his left. His theory was rewarded when Hermione appeared in the middle of the antechamber with a _whump_, wheezing for breath as she scrambled to her feet and her eyes met his.

She knew she was screwed, but she painted the brightest, faux-cheerful grin on her face as she could, trying to keep it buoyant even as his own glare threatened to melt the paint right off the walls.

"Is something wrong?" She asked.

"Evidently." The response was brusque, the glare now accompanied by the kind of smirk of a man who _knew _he was in control. "Don't play dumb with me."

"Who's playing?"

_Oops. Wrong response_. Her smile dropped instantly as his glare froze and what _could_ have been only a mocking stare turned into a full-out glower. Well, she'd signed her own death warrant on that one, bashed in the hornet's nest, _stomped _on said hornet's nest…

She _really _didn't like the new glint in his eyes, the one that was practically proclaiming in triumph that she'd just given him the perfect excuse to revitalize his sadistic tendencies.

"Would you care to rethink that statement?"

His voice was deadly calm, and as long as Hermione was happily dumping more wood on the fire that was taking out her sense of judgment, she was making every conscious effort to ignore his threats, both verbal and unspoken. Maybe all this adrenaline was the reason she was feeling so giddy and reckless. _Was it worth it? _She didn't think so; she knew he'd make good on his threats to punish her in some way or another, and insulting his creativity in _that _particular department wouldn't really get either of them anywhere.

"…maybe?" She cringed. "Look, I'm _not _just going to stay locked up in here forever! What did you _expect _me to do?"

"I _expected _you to do as you're told." His voice was clear and even, and Hermione used her final ounce of nerve to shoot him an incredulous glance.

"_Really?_ I'm not one of your lackeys, Voldemort. I don't—_won't_—take orders from you."

"I can see that," he responded. "Like I told you before, I will not allow you to interfere with my work. I can't have you…_repeating _your little cry for attention in my meeting room."

Hermione had to stop herself from forcefully contradicting his last statement, reminding herself that yelling—_correcting _him would do nothing to make this mess any easier to deal with.

"I'm merely returning the favor." She kept the tone of her voice as light as possible,

"I wasn't aware you were in my debt." The smirk had returned. "You must know that I need nothing from you. I could ignore you and it would not change my life in the slightest. _You_, on the other hand, must rely on _me _for every bit of human conversation or interaction you'll ever get for the rest of your life. How does that make you feel?"

She certainly _hoped _it was a rhetorical question, the sarcastic '_how do you think it makes me feel?_' on the tip of her tongue in case it wasn't. He seemed satisfied with the heavy silence that followed, moving slightly to the giant stone fireplace along one side of the room, lighting it with a flick of his wand. The flames that filled it leaped and danced, filling Hermione with the strangest feelings of unease deep in her stomach.

"What do you want from me?" Her voice sounded much weaker than before, but she knew everything he'd just said was true.

He sighed in disapproval. "Wrong. What do _you _want from _me_?"

He was going to make her say it, wasn't he? Hermione had never been angrier at him, or more full of shame for admitting that he was right about this, that at least he was better than total human deprivation, that she'd barely last a month before cracking mentally under the stress.

"Companionship. Conversation." She couldn't believe she was even saying this. She knew the routine: she'd given him what he wanted, and now he was going to gloat about it in front of her.

The laugh that escaped his lips didn't sound much like a laugh at all. "My dear, if your friends could see you now."

Hermione bristled more at the remark about her friends than at his casual '_my dear_,' although she would get to _that _in a minute. First, she'd let his gloating run its course, _then _she'd figure out what to do next. The more time she spent in his company, she decided, the more she found that her carefully made plans seemed to crumble to dust beneath her feet.

She settled for the safe, vague answer of: "they _can't_, I'm your poltergeist."

She was sure he didn't mean it that way, but she liked it better when he was talking, even if it was about her. He continued.

"I mean, if they could see what you've become. Exchanging pleasantries with the Dark Lord?"

He seemed to find this funny, and laughed more in his own way. Hermione waited for him to get to the point.

"They'd think you've betrayed them, _Hermione_." He waited a second for a response, smirk growing wider with each word. "That you would _willingly _choose my company over theirs?"

She refused to let him know just how painfully his words were affecting her, just how much doubt had begun to grow inside her mind. She knew her friends well; she knew how horrified they'd really be if they saw her now. She wavered—would they wait for the truth, or condemn her on this ghost of a rumor?

"Do you even remember them the same way anymore? Do you remember the sound of their voices, the good memories, the bad?" He was taunting her now, openly, no pretenses. She hated it, but couldn't seem to find any way to make him stop.

"Did you have a lover?" The sharpness of Hermione's sudden cringe seemed to fuel him on even more. "Do you remember his touch? His kisses?"

Hermione's thoughts fled to Ron, and how she couldn't remember one _damn thing_ that compared with the expectations behind his words. There had been no kisses, but there were plenty of brief touches, glimpses of poorly-hidden affections, all of it as shallow as a puddle. She was pulling at straws made of air, hoping to latch on to something real; her memories _were _real, weren't they? Real enough for her?

Apparently not for him. She didn't realize how close they had become until she looked up to find him barely a foot away from her.

"You're cruel."

"You see something wrong with that?" With the way he was acting, they could have been talking about the weather. "Is there any way to accomplish what I intend to do without being so?"

She did not answer; instead, she looked away.

"I take it your memories are not as strong as you thought they were." He sounded amused. "Do not worry, for every memory of your friends, I will take it and replace it with one of _me_. _His _touches will become _mine_. _His _kisses will become _mine_ in your mind. There will be no room for anyone but _me_."

Her head snapped back up at these words, and Hermione wondered why she still refused to move. Her feet remained as firmly planted in place as though her shoes were nailed to the floor. She could feel his breath on her cheek as he leaned closer. She closed her eyes, quickly opening them again to be sure that he was really here, that this was really happening. His lips were a hairs width from her own, turned upwards in the most triumphant smirk yet. _Why can't I move?_

Almost in reflex, she turned her head up slightly, as if anticipating his reaction, flinching when she realized just what she was doing.

"I'm the Dark Lord. I'm going to kill your friends. Why are you hesitating?" He spoke the words so calmly and with such confidence that she felt her last spark of hope die inside. He didn't care what she was about to say next, and brought their lips together, proving his words just as effectively with actions as she found that no matter what she did, he was tainting her every memory of her friends and replacing them with his.

It was passionless, but it proved a more thorough punishment than anything physically painful. She tried as hard as she could to recall what Viktor's kiss felt like, but all she could remember was the pressure of Voldemort's lips against hers.

He stepped back, watching her reaction with already cemented triumph as she refused to meet his eyes, dropping through the floor without a sound. He didn't know what had prompted him to take that particular route, but it got the job done quickly and effectively. She'd gotten what she wanted, didn't she? And so did he. He'd shown Hermione her place.

* * *

A cloaked figure walked across the grassy field surrounding the lake which bordered a school, twinkling lights from the windows illuminating it against the night sky. The person was headed towards the school, barely stopping as their footsteps treaded evenly over the grass.

They paused, suddenly coming to a dead stop as they deviated from their original path, making their way towards an unremarkable tree, leaning down to brush a handful of gravel and dirt from the half-buried object that had caught the light just enough to hold their attention. The figure reached towards it, pulling it out of its resting place and into the light where he could see it clearer. It was a bottle, corked and filled with a strange dark liquid that looked green in the lack of light and sloshed around as he turned it over. Slowly he pocketed it before continuing up the path to the school.

* * *

A/N: Again, I'm so, so sorry for the delay. I hope this small dose of...fluff? (steel-wool fluff? xD) makes up for it!

To date, chapter four is the most popular chapter in _JLMWUA_, for hopefully obvious reasons xD Because of that, I wanted to parallel it here by giving you all a monstrously long chapter, a kiss, and the appearance of the memory bottle! Show of hands, who saw that one coming? xD

I will try my hardest to get the next chapter out as soon as I can! Reviews would be much loved!

~Kako

to Kuro-baara: In the original story, the second-to-last chapter is the alternate ending; it has no bearing on this story or the final chapter of "Just Let Me Wake Up Already." Hope that clears things up! If you have any more questions, feel free to ask!


	5. Quid Pro Quo

A Different Kind of Gravity

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed on Chapter Four! Saene, satoz, lizzy likes the hot guy, MrsMarbleMan, Sectimsempra, Coco96, Wicked Sapphira, DreamBigToFallHard, FrequentlyDazzled93, Lady Kaliska, JaceDamian23, chocolaterox92, signy33, Eliza Lighton, georgievixen, sunshine'n'sarcasm, priscalthum, Miss Mercury101, Edward-is-sexier-than-Mike, kamapaludo, sweet-tang-honney, nicole317, cosettex, wittyying, My Misguided Fairytale, xdeyawsx, omgahitsbritt08, oZxho, Neferet Ichigo, milkbun, kaitlynvoncat, ilovenat1995, and anonymous.

And an additional thanks to **Sakura Takanouchi**, the much-loved beta.

This chapter is dedicated to signy33, with best wishes for their birthday!

* * *

_I'm finding out in the hardest way  
The consequence of every mistake I've ever made  
Baby what's it like to be alone?  
(Baby, what's it like to be alone)  
I don't want to know, I don't want to know_

_--Mayday Parade, "Bruised and Scarred."_

* * *

_Recap of Chapter Four:_

_He didn't know what had prompted him to take that particular route, but it got the job done quickly and effectively. She got what she wanted, didn't she? And so did he. He'd shown Hermione her place._

Chapter Five: Quid Pro Quo

Hermione's anger at the way that Voldemort had no doubt purposely manipulated and directed her was matched only at her anger at herself for letting it happen. She was a _Gryffindor_, the smartest witch of her age, as they said, so _why _did she let herself fall to pieces over something as meaningless as the barest of physical contact?

He was right, however, and she had to admit that, no matter how much it irked her to do so. She had no agreement, no contract with him, but he was in every position to hurt her at any moment of his choosing. Sure, she could do her best to upset the order or plans of his ranks, but that would be barely a scratch to the surface. He'd get over it, and she'd only endure more of what he'd already shown to her that he was capable of delivering.

And she really, _really_ didn't want any kind of a repeat performance of mental havoc _á la _Voldemort. Once was more than enough, really.

The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to find some way to cause _him _pain for once, to show him that she was hardly a pushover, that everything he said about her was false. As she floated through rooms and walls, no ideas came to her. It wasn't _her_ fault that the man was completely unflappable.

_He's like a rock_, she thought. _An emotionless rock. How do I hurt a rock?_

That particular line of logic was going nowhere fast, for her mind automatically got stuck on the Mohs scale of mineral hardness and a running tally of acids that would destroy certain kinds of rocks—none of these recollections would be even remotely helpful to her in the slightest, but Hermione enjoyed the reprieve.

_Really…_she pursed her lips. _If I wanted to cause Voldemort pain, how would I do it?_

She knew the hunt for the Horcruxes would continue without her, and destroying one or more was the first thing that came to her mind, but she was hardly in a position to do anything about that. They had discussed the possibility of Nagini being a Horcrux, but she hadn't seen the snake since she'd been in Malfoy Manor. If the snake held a part of Voldemort's soul in it, there was even a possibility that the snake could sense her and attack her if she tried to harm it.

She gritted her teeth, marking a mental _X _through her first plan.

She could see how well he could take his own poison, but decided that it was out of the question. He would not fall for the same trick he'd used on her, that much was certain. The idea that she could pull off any kind of seduction was laughable at best, embarrassing beyond all reason at worst. He'd used her insecurities about her own emotional connections with her friends to unbalance her, and she was sure he had no such issues.

She scratched an _X _through plan number two.

It seemed she had finally found something of merit with plan number three. Whenever he had stretched the physical limitations of their bond through Apparition, it had hurt her physically, if for only a moment. Reason stood to gain that the same happened to him when she had attempted to leave the Manor immediately after her 'death,' only he wouldn't have known what was happening at the time. If she made a conscious enough effort to distance or break the bond, any pain acquired should be transferred directly to Voldemort.

…_Theoretically_, she thought.

It was better than nothing, and if _nothing_ is what happened then she wouldn't have lost anything by trying.

Either way, she had to get back at him, somehow. She'd taken torture from the hands of his followers, been all but locked up for _days_, deprived of and then overloaded with emotional stimuli, and was now thoroughly lost in his headquarters.

She looked left and right, unsure just where she'd taken a wrong turn. It didn't help matters that every single hallway looked _exactly_ the same; the Malfoy family seemed as creative in their decorating as they were with their insults.

She plunged through a wall and found herself in a fairly nondescript bathroom, crossing the white tiled floor to peer out of the small window. She deduced that she was on the ground floor and that the room seemed to be facing the back of the house, as she wasn't familiar with that part of the grounds, and it seemed to stretch for quite a distance.

_Even better_, she thought. Whatever link bound them seemed to take residential topography boundaries into account, so Hermione hoped that she'd be able to get far enough towards the edge of the property to weaken the bond or even break it. The more time she had to stretch it before he arrived, the better, too. She knew he'd probably figure it out fairly soon, but by that time she hoped her little revenge plan would have been completed.

…_Theoretically_, she huffed.

Hermione passed through the wall and stepped onto the immaculately cultivated grass that made up the back of the Malfoy estate. It would have been pretty if she could have forgotten for a moment just where she was, but she didn't have the time. She didn't have the time for a lot of these things, she realized, not when her friends were out there continuing their mission without her.

She surged onwards, resolutely stamping her way through the grass, enjoying the way her ghostly shoes left tiny little imperfections in her wake.

She glanced behind her towards the manor once as she continued across the vast field that made up a large section of the Malfoy's immense backyard. She'd already passed a few rows of hedges and colorful flowers that bloomed even in this colder weather, although the sun was up and shining brightly as if to mock her less-than-cheerful mood. She'd traveled a lot farther than she'd thought as the house grew smaller in sight the further she traveled, and her once-dwindling optimism grew with each passing step.

After what seemed like an hour of solid walking, Hermione was beginning to find whole new reasons for disliking the Malfoy family. She paused to catch her breath, leaning against a tree to take advantage of the shade it offered. She couldn't tell whether the minor exhaustion she was feeling was due to the distance she had just covered or the fact that she was nearing the edge of the Malfoy's property, but gave herself a few minutes of rest to regain her energy. She had a feeling she would need it if she hoped to have the strength to break their strange bond.

After a few more minutes of walking she began to feel it. The air seemed thinner, like it was becoming harder and harder to breathe properly. Hermione strained to put one foot in front of the other, so she paused, took as deep a breath as she could, tensed every muscle in her arms and legs, and pushed off from the ground in as poltergeist-appropriate a way as she knew how.

She was prepared to feel the weight that immediately settled back somewhere behind her shoulders as she surged through the air, grim determination written into her face as she struggled to keep her momentum going. She could feel it—could almost _hear _it as something around her seemed to rip before the air in her lungs gave out and tears sprung to her eyes as she resisted the force tugging her backwards.

_No…No! I must do this!_ She shouted inside her mind, fingers scrabbling on the too-thin air as she fought to keep moving. It barely registered that her feet were pedaling in mid-air and she wasn't moving any longer before a curtain of blackness seeped into her vision as the ground rushed up suddenly to meet her. She landed awkwardly, pain shooting through one arm as she twisted around and tried to sit up, taking in great gulps of air as the invisible weight of the barrier settled firmly around her.

The ground seemed to pulse suddenly, the leaves and branches of the trees shaking with the force of what Hermione was sure was Voldemort's response to her actions. Hopefully, he'd felt everything she'd done in double.

Once more, she felt it; this was the end. Bright lights, blurred vision, the works. The only thing left was…Hermione frowned in confusion as Voldemort's head popped into her vision, an equally disgruntled expression on his face. Her head was still swimming, and she wondered, _why is the last thing I'm hallucinating _you_?_

He smirked.

_Oh, dear, I said that out loud, didn't I? _

"Yes, you did." He tried to look smug, but the effort was ruined by the look of anger and, dare she hoped, pain, on his face.

"Hold still, I'm apparating us back to the Manor."

"No," Hermione argued resolutely, attempting to wriggle away in the direction of the barrier even as Voldemort grabbed her arm. She winced; _he_ _just _had_ to pick the injured one, didn't he?_

She landed on her feet, surprisingly, coughing as she struggled to regulate her breathing before promptly falling into the wall in Voldemort's antechamber. The inconveniently asymmetrically-patterned wallpaper spun in Hermione's vision, and she spared one thought to curse it and another to force down the nausea that the side-along apparition had caused. She turned back to face the other occupant in the room, who was glaring at her as though she'd done something to deserve it. She half hoped she had.

"Something wrong?" She couldn't help the delirious smile that rose to her lips.

"Clearly," he answered assuredly. "If you would be so kind, enlighten me on just _what_ the hell you were doing?"

"You're smart, you figure it out," she muttered.

"Let's review, shall we?" he began. "You attempted to break my hold over you—nearly succeeding, by the way—and didn't you think for a _second_ that you or I would come out without a scratch at the other end?"

She paused. Her vision was starting to clear and the massive headache and tingling feeling in her right arm was also starting to fade, but her rationality seemed to have abandoned her altogether.

"…I believe that was the general idea," she offered.

"And wouldn't that qualify as just _slightly_ more than counterproductive?"

"…Well, not if it _worked_," she said.

"Well, now that you've finished your cry for attention, congratulations, you've got it," he continued. "What do you want?"

"I feel funny," Hermione managed, still trying to keep her balance by inconspicuously grasping the chair rail.

Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Naturally. But, I think you should recover with no lasting damage," he said, sarcasm almost tangibly dripping from every word.

"You _think_? I don't _think _I like those words," she muttered.

"You're wasting my time," he bit back. "I'll return when you're recovered." He hesitated. "_If _you recover. Your possible brain damage is not my problem."

By the time she gained the strength to form a decently witty response, he'd already stormed out of the room. Hermione slumped onto one of the couches in the room, not even caring that she had floated halfway through it to lay her head on one of the surprisingly comfortable decorative pillows.

_I don't see what his problem is, half his staff suffers from brain damage_, she thought defiantly. _If only…it was contagious…the Lestranges' minds are addled enough for the lot of them…_

After a few minutes of sitting and doing nothing, she began to feel restless and slid a book from the top of the stack towards her.

It made her feel slightly better that she could have _sworn_ she saw Voldemort limping as he exited the room…she laughed to herself as she opened the cover.

* * *

He returned several hours later, a large stack of books in his hands. Upon further observation, Hermione discovered that it was actually a very small stack of books, but each book was about the size of one of her school trunks. She tried not to pay any attention to him, but curiosity got the better of her and she leaned over to look at the titles as he set them down on the coffee table.

"I suggest a compromise." Hermione had never been happier to hear those words coming from his mouth, especially when he was offering a first-edition copy of _A Compendium of Common Curses and their Counter-Actions_. Hermione was just about salivating as she spread the books out across the table. There were books on death omens, books on healing magic, and even a copy of _Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests_. She lifted a copy of _Poltergeists and You: Banish your Demons in Twelve Easy Steps! _and lifted an eyebrow.

"What are all these for?" She asked.

"Like I said, it's a compromise. I believe that with the proper _motivation_ and research, we should be able to find a _cure_ for your condition," he answered briskly.

"We?" She asked skeptically.

"I believe that's what I said." She didn't blame him for sounding more than a little brusque, although she partly wondered if that was because _Lockhart's_ book was one of the closest pieces of literature on the subject of poltergeists.

"And what's my end of the deal?" Hermione asked. "I'm _not_ going to help you with any of…_your_ research." She wrinkled her nose, mind filling with all of the creatively horrible ideas her brain could conjure up.

"My dear, what do you think I am doing in my spare time? I am aware that you have been _investigating_ the premises, but the drawing-room and my laboratory are hardly indicative of the unending evils you seem so bent on attributing to me."

Hermione snorted in response, choosing to ignore his misplaced endearment and the prickling, uncomfortable feeling it brought to the back of her neck, still waiting on his answer.

"And while it would be a trial to be without your company any longer than I am already forced to endure, I believe we both will survive, and besides, I am perfectly capable without your assistance." He sounded justifiably amused, and Hermione scowled at his capacity to turn everything around to be about _him_, even when the situation was clearly about _her_. "No, what you will do for me is precisely _not_ what you did this afternoon. You will not attempt to disrupt the bond until such time that we have determined a mutually secure method of breaking it. Permanently. At which time you are free to live out the remainder of your short life, and I will continue on with mine. Do we have an agreement?"

"Fine," she responded, clipped.

"Now," he continued, as if the previous events of the day had all but vanished, "I have read all of these books"—Hermione rolled her eyes—"and there are a few valid points we need to consider."

"So, you're _seriously_ going to help me with this?" She asked incredulously, waving her ghostly arms around for emphasis.

"I gave you my word." Voldemort inclined his head. "I would like to be rid of this unfortunate circumstance just as much as you, if not more, so please keep that in mind."

"I will," She responded seriously. "Although you'll forgive me if I don't quite believe you."

Voldemort sighed. "Haven't we been over this already? You very clearly have a problem with certain…life choices of mine, but I suggest you put that behind you if it will influence your attitude towards our necessary partnership. Your research would not succeed on your own," he paused while Hermione spluttered, unconvinced, "and I would not like a repetition of this afternoon's cry for attention," he repeated. "And I can do without another morality lecture from you."

"And here I thought you were an expert on all subjects, poltergeists and world domination excluded?"

He smirked. "I don't _dare_ to assume the rank of theorist or poltergeist, I'll leave those to you. Although," he paused, "I won't deny the title of dictator, if it comes my way."

Hermione managed a complacent grin. "If there's one thing I've learned from observation, the _poltergeist_ is _always_ in control."

"Then learn to _control_ your attitude," he commented smoothly.

"If you ever learn to _control_ your temper," she finished, mocking his tone.

Voldemort frowned; doing anything otherwise would be analogous to acting on her words, and that just wouldn't do. "Get to work or I will find a spell in these books that will shut you up."

"Spells don't last all that long on poltergeists, you should know that," she said, for once feeling proud of her position. "It's probably the same reason you can't read my mind, it's the same thing that happens with a lot of other magical creatures, like giants or trolls…"

Realizing that she'd just compared herself favorably to a giant and a troll, Hermione continued quickly. "I just mean that it wouldn't work. You can't banish me or do anything else of the sort. Although," she paused, tilting her head to the side as she thought, "Olive Hornby _did _appeal to the Ministry to get Myrtle to stop haunting her. If you like, you can go to the Wizengamot, tell them you've got an invisible spirit following you around and you just can't _handle_ it anymore, I'm sure they'll be perfectly amenable to your situation."

"You forget, girl, I _own _the Ministry. They'll do whatever I want," he answered.

"So, is that your new plan? Get them to banish me and then live with the knowledge for the rest of your life—_forever_, if I'm not mistaken—that you just weren't strong enough to deal with a teenage poltergeist? You may control the Ministry, but the Daily Prophet would love that one," she said, masking her poorly concealed grin by pulling one of the books towards her and opening up the cover. A thick layer of dust rose from the musty-smelling pages, and Hermione coughed into her sleeve.

"We're wasting valuable time," he tersely reminded her, so Hermione relented, leaning in to read the small print of Adalbert Waffling's _Magical Theory_.

Hermione had lost track of time three books later, but as her eyes were now impervious from any strain, she hadn't noticed when Voldemort had retired, but the empty chair on the other side of the narrow table was proof of that, and the organized stack of books she assumed he'd already read through. Even the lamps had all been turned down, and Hermione blushed when she realized that she'd been so engrossed in her reading that she hadn't even looked up _once_ except to grab a new book. While any information on poltergeists was irritatingly slim and mostly redundant, she'd leaned a lot about various other magical creatures she hoped she'd have a chance to put to good use. She stretched out her legs, wincing as the joints popped in protest of the awkward position she'd kept with her legs folded underneath her and her nose practically inches from the text. She started on the next one and was seriously considering inventing the Wizarding equivalent of an audio-book just to break up the monotony when she glanced over to the window and saw that, to her surprise, an orange glow was already spreading over the sky. She stretched her arms above her head as well, hoping the pops from her stiff shoulders served as a good substitute alarm clock.

She turned the page, starting on the third chapter when the information suddenly started to make sense. She trailed the passage eagerly with her index finger as she read, flipping the next page quickly to learn all of the material as hastily as she could.

"I think I've…" she breathed softly.

"Found something?" Voldemort asked, leaning against the door-frame.

"I think so."

* * *

A/N: What did I say about my updating? Don't let me get away with this snail's pace!

All of the books mentioned (with the exception of _Poltergeists and You_, which I added for comic effect xD) are real magical texts, according to HP Lexicon.

For anyone unaware, 'quid pro quo' means, roughly, 'this for that,' or 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours,' referring to their little cease-fire. xD

Thanks for reading this chapter, and since you're already here, drop me your thoughts in a review, please? =)

~Kako


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